


Damn what the stars own

by Noxambule



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Ableism, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Canon-Typical Transphobia, Canon-Typical Whorephobia, Chest Dysphoria, Discussion of Abortion, Discussion of gender reassignment surgery, Discussion of hormones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gender Dysphoria, Health and medical content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Minor Character Death, Multi, Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Periods, Prince Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans character nudity in medical care context, Warning : A trans character is outed against his will in a first aid attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:04:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27060118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxambule/pseuds/Noxambule
Summary: After running away from everything for so long, a bard finally found something to run to. Now all he needs to do is to learn how to work with a burnt out sorceress, and how to trust the witcher who broke his heart. But Jaskier will do anything to find Ciri again. Unfortunately, it looks like his own past has no intention of leaving him alone.Or,Jaskier is a trans royal runnaway, and has taken upon himself to keep an eye on Ciri while Geralt tried to escape his destiny. But now, Cintra has fallen, he knows he's not the only one looking for the princess, and somehow Yennefer of Fucking Vengerberg is involved.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 36
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so, this is the very first fic I have written, and the first time I'm posting something that big in English. I would like to thank my boyfriends Muh and @PuckB for bearing with me and supporting me all the way through, and of course anyone who will read this story !  
> I'm not super used to the tagging and rating system, and I am not done writing, so tags will be added along the way, but if you think I should tag something in particular please let me know in the comments !

The story of Jaskier, The Greatest Bard that Ever Lived didn’t exactly start the way he would have wanted. Actually, he didn’t really know when that story had started.

Did it start with a brother drunk with freedom ?

Did it start with a lover who wanted to sing for his sick friend ?

Did it start with a student learning about the world and himself at Oxenfurt ?

Did it start with a fool dead set on following a witcher of ill-reputation ?

Or did it start with a kid who never stopped running away from home ?

Maybe it would be best to start like quite a lot of stories start.

_Once upon a time, there was a princess._

Oh for fuck sake !

Once upon a time, in a kingdom so small almost everyone forgot it existed in the first place, there was a child who everyone insisted was a princess.

And the problem had been : he definitely wasn't.

He wouldn’t get his name before years, but let’s call him Jaskier anyway.

Someone who had never been raised at court would tend to think noble kids had it easy, and whether it was true or not depended on quite a few little things. After a while, Jaskier had found out the main factor for that could be summed down to how dedicated to the concepts of “legacy” and “bloodline” you were, and how much of your own identity you were willing to sacrifice to them.

He counted himself lucky not to be the eldest kid, and quite regularly thanked his elder brother for being the first in line, and such a perfect little prince in the making with that. Jaskier was getting enough shit from their parents already without needing to add the pressure of being _The_ heir.

“You know, the best way to be certain to have absolutely failed at meeting our parents’ expectations is that they named our little sister Esperanza !”

“Speak for yourself !”

“You don’t get it Julian, you’re a boy and you’re the prince, you can’t do anything wrong.”

They loved each other as much as siblings could, but the argument came and went like the tide, each unhappy in their own way about the traditions that ruled their lives yet each supportive as they could of each other and Esperanza, who didn’t care to join in their bickering.

Yet time passed, and kids grew and grew apart.

Julian who had started excited about the fighting lessons and the chest hair was now allowed in their father’s study to learn of the kingdom’s ways.

Jaskier who was getting bored beyond his years with fucking embroidery, and more and more annoyed every time his mother tried to coerce him into behaving like a lady.

But what he felt worse than all the needles and arguing in the world was how suddenly his body seemed to be working against him. Waking up one day in a pool of his own blood was rather annoying in itself yes, but apparently it was the sign his mother had waited all along to start with the fucking matchmaking ! Years later, Jaskier would still smirk at the sight of a scar his mother had left on his cheek with one of her massive jeweled rings after he’d sent some pompous arsehole a gift he would never forget.

“You sent the viscount of Lettenhove your what ??!” Julian asked him that night through the locked door of his room.

“You heard me Ju, he wouldn’t shut his trap about his bleeding heart so I gave him a piece of my bleeding cunt.”

The disgusted sound his brother had made couldn't hide the laughter in his voice. Even as they grew apart, he was still his biggest support, and soon after he had managed to convince their mother Jaskier was definitely too immature to wed and would only bring more embarrassment and chaos if she kept on trying to force his hand.

It was only borrowed time before the inevitable came knocking again, but it was a relief for a while. Their mother had turned her attention to Esperanza who was more than happy to be treated as a grown up, and apparently his stunt with Lettenhove had made her wary of trying to force the subject of marriage onto her kid. All he had to do to keep her off his back was to carry on with the few music lessons he didn’t actually hate and that was all. It left Jaskier with more free time on his hands than he would ever have hoped for.

Sometimes he wondered, maybe if he hadn’t had that much freedom at the time he wouldn’t have started to get _ideas_. 

But most likely it would have just been a ripple in his timeline.

_You may think me delusional or fucking with you, but most of the time I do not feel like a woman._

Julian had left the castle to study at Oxenfurt (father had insisted he needed to be taught by the best and earn the respect of his peers where his title couldn’t protect him) and their letters cost them extra coin to be sure they wouldn’t pass through their parents’ hands.

_What a strange thing it is, to feel so at odds with one’s body that you sometimes cannot face a mirror._

_Maybe I was destined to be a man and something went wrong. Mother keeps trying to fatten me up, says my hips and breasts are too small to bear and raise children. Bullshit. As if she didn’t pay a wet nurse herself._

_As for father, I still think you blind to his doing when you are not around._

_He gave Williams the blacksmith his leave because word came to him his son taught me how to wield a sword. He didn’t scream but he made it clear he would have preferred if I had fucked the boy._

  
  


_You are always so dramatic. It’s no news that you were always unhappy with the hand you’ve been dealt. You do not want to feel like a woman because you believe to be treated unfairly and that being a man would have fixed it. I can’t blame you for that, even though traveling has shown me our kingdom is far from the worst on those matters. At least you could still reign if you were born first and accepted to marry._

_But I don’t think being a man would have changed you that much. You would still drive all of us crazy with that thirst for freedom of yours and I would love and respect you just the same._

_Also please tell me you didn’t tell Father you fucked Williams’ daughter just to prove a point._

He didn’t get it. He never got it. It was infuriating, far more than any of their misunderstanding of each other’s position had ever been, how Jaskier could trust him enough to speak of the feeling that was eating him alive just to have him dismiss it as perpetual female dissatisfaction. It may have been the closest thing to “support” he could have hoped for, but that very thought made his insides boil with anger and guilt.

He didn’t bring up the subject upfront in his later letters. Didn’t tell him of the secretly bought clothes and fabrics, of the candles he burnt at night trying to sew together the bastard child of a bodice and a corset that he hoped could disguise his frame.

He didn’t lie, per se, but he wasn’t exactly proud of his half truths either, pretending he’d given another shot at needlework to keep their mother off his case. Pretending he didn’t sneak out at dusk to meddle with the people, hair tucked under a cap and wearing clothes a woman of his rank wouldn’t be caught dead in.

Okay, lying.

Maybe via omission but still lying.

Jaskier wondered sometimes if Julian had seen what he was seeing in the streets, or if he still turned a blind eye to what their father deemed too low for him. Not only were almost none of the exhausting conventions that drove his life relevant, but the bodies around him seemed almost alien, full of callousses and edges, existing in all sorts and manners of fat, scars, disabilities, muscles…

It was becoming clearer and clearer that etiquette and traditions were at best a way for people with too much money and power to fill up their lives and try and give themselves purposes, and at worst an elaborate screen of smokes and mirrors to try and make it look like they weren’t even of the same species.

_Maybe if those who put their sweat and blood into work think those in the castle are too important and fancy to be held accountable then they won’t see they’re just a bunch of parasites who couldn’t even bake their own bread._

_Why waste breath with cautionary tales of beasts and elves in the woods ? The monsters who prey on the flesh of those they deem lesser than themselves are none but human._

He kept the words to himself. Brother or not, it would have been unwise to tell a prince he was no better than the noonwraiths that had plagued the countryside for so long. Just as it would have been unwise to share his bitterness with the common folk, who would have either thought him a spy from the castle testing their loyalties or a spoiled brat having his fix of teenage rebellion.

Yeah, it seemed like he couldn’t have his cake and eat it, either he managed to pass for a young man but couldn’t hide the silverspoon behind his teeth, or people thought him to be just another girl wearing pants to taste a little bit of independence. Sucked.

Oh, it could have been worse, he could have kept his thoughts to himself in a secret diary, and the sneaky little maid in waiting his mother had stuck him with during the day could have stolen it and brought it to his father in hopes of getting his approval.

Ahahah, just kidding.

Unless…

The day his father had called for him, Jaskier knew it was to pull the reins on his days of freedom. But to be honest, he was expecting a shiny new and stricter governess, not…

The second he saw the worn notebook held tight behind his father’s knuckles he knew he was fucked.

There was no way to tell how much time had passed when Julian bursted down his cell door. He was starting to see fleeting lights where there should have been none and had stopped bleeding for a while thanks to the malnutrition. Hallucinating himself as a fucking princess in a tower, there were scars and scabs on his chest where he’d scratched himself to blood.

Time and space were dancing a strange waltz in front of his eyes, it was like being seated in the back of a cart and watching his own body move with no control over it. Has there always been 

so many steps in those stairs ?

He heard shouts and whispers, threats and negotiations bellowing down the corridors. The chambermaids didn’t look at him in the eye and the pitter-patter of their steps felt like so many ants around him.

After a week or so from being let out, Julian came to him once again, and this time threw a large leather bag onto his lap.

“We have one hour before they change their minds, I suggest you pack up quickly.”

He must have blinked a little bit too slowly, tilted his head a tad too far.

“Come on sis, you, me, horses and a bloody holliday, don’t you want to get out ?”

The bag already had already been stocked with his half of the stuff they’d need to eat and sleep if they needed to do so outside. Jaskier stuffed the rest out in less than five minutes. All of _his_ clothes had been taken away and probably burnt, along with his unfinished needlework, but there were still threads and needles in the embroidery box he had been gifted the last year. He pocketed it all, and in that moment it felt as if he already knew he would not come back, no matter what his brother might have negotiated. He shook his head, trying to shoo the sinister thoughts out of it, and ran to the stables with Julian.

His first taste of the open world was something he would never forget. Intoxicating like the first glass of water at the end of a long, long desert hike.

They kept appearances for the week it took them to pass the border, sleeping in fine inns when they couldn't get invited to the table of lesser nobles who hoped for favours of the crown in return. Once they were out of the woods, both figuratively and literally, they started stranding from the main road.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“What are ye running from lassie ?”

“Everything.”

Julian was dead.

A fucking stupid shit ass horse accident.

Couldn't even blame the damned mare who had shattered a leg in the fall and had to be put out of her misery.

Julian was dead.

Jaskier was alone.

Julian was dead, Jaskier was alone and scared.

And suddenly it dawned on him that he was the next in line.

What was it that Julian wrote ?

 _At_ _least you could still reign if you were born first and accepted to marry._

As if he’d ever have a choice in the matter. There never really was a choice, was there ?

He drank.

He used some of the money they had left to have him buried properly.

He drank.

He sold the mare’s leathers.

He cried.

He drank.

In their room at the inn, there were two beds and two luggages. He couldn’t bring himself to open Julian’s.

He cried.

The woman who sang for the funeral had a voice like he’d never heard before. He tried to join her but couldn't find the words or the chords. He ended up humming a drone to fight the hiccups and wails.

He drank.

A week, two weeks later ? What was time anyway.

He cried.

The woman at the funeral was called Filipa and she was the undertaker’s daughter. She held his hand when he opened the sacks and started sorting out their belongings.

He cried.

She sold what needed to disappear. He was pretty sure she kept a bit for herself but couldn't care less.

He drank.

She cut his hair and dyed it brown with a powder from the root of a tree. It would never be exactly the colour of Julian’s hair but it would have to do.

_No more miss goldilocks._

He had no tear left.

One morning he went down to the undertaker and gave him a golden ring.

“Your daughter tells me you can write like anyone and there is no way to tell the difference ?”

The old man took a bite at the ring and nodded. Filipa closed the blinds as Jaskier took a seat.

“What are ye running from lassie ?”

“Everything.”

_Dear Father and Mother_

_It is with great pain that I must inform you that your daughter has met a most unfortunate accident near Jetsam and has subsequently died. In regards to her appearance I have chosen to have her remains inhumated here rather than have them brought back home._

_I shall keep travelling west before getting back to my studies._

_Give my regards to Esperanza._

_Your son and heir_

_Julian Alfred Pancratz_

The next day the sun was too bright and too hot. Jaskier would have prefered rain and thunder, the dramatics of it all. He wore clothes just a bit too large for him and kept trying to grab a fistful of hair that wasn’t there to try and tie it up.

Before leaving, he stopped by the grave one last time.

“I’m so sorry it had to be like that. I’m so sorry. I love you so much…”

He had no tear left.

In the midsummer sun, the engraving on the headstone shone bright.

_Here lies J. A. Pancratz_

Jaskier didn't come back to Jetsam.

  
  


He walked. Mostly.

He still had his own horse, mind you, but also ended up more than once having flashbacks of the accident or hyperventilating at the smallest misstep or bump in the road. So, he walked.

For six months, he walked.

Maybe it would have been easier if it had been all just a blur, going through the motion. But it wasn’t. He was painfully aware of everything he lived through, every connection he made or missed to other human beings, all while feeling completely detached from it. A voyeur of his own life.

He wished he could feel nothing, but everything felt a thousand times worse, he just couldn’t find a way to let it out. He had always made it work by being the bratty smartass, and so he played the part, hoping one day after the other to be recast.

To be reborn.

He didn’t have a name. That name was buried. He could never be Julian. He didn’t _want_ to be Julian. He didn’t know who he was. What he was supposed to be. To do. Still buried under the surface there was that itch that he couldn’t scratch, that faint buzzing that made him feel always an inch beside himself, lost inside a body that he couldn’t fathom was his.

 _What the fuck is wrong with me_ ?

He sang. Somewhere along the road he had came upon a lute, a poor quality one, nothing like the ones he’d been taught to play between stone walls. There was something comforting in singing that reminded him of Julian, and it made him feel safer that folks could think he had a purpose and wasn’t just a lost wandering soul that suspiciously never seemed to run out of money. Wandering musicians more often than not found ways to get by, men and women alike.

He sang. He copied songs that would have made his teachers frown the same way they’d have with a dung under their noses, and his lady in waiting to go red in the cheeks. He sang until his voice learnt how to get lower than before. Not as low as he wished for, but enough. Just enough. He learnt songs from all over, how they answered to one another, how they told the stories of their land and their people.

Jaskier thought he knew languages, and discovered he knew jackshit, that written words could never keep them still. Every region had their words, every town another meaning, and the songs… Gods, the best songs were the ones that had so many versions you could humm them anywhere and someone would join in (but also old farts would give you shit if you didn’t know the words they’d learnt as lads).

He listened carefully and wrote carefully, keeping track of the sung tales. So many stories of girls turnt in so many things, rocks, trees, beasts and monsters, but never into men (at least not before dying first).

  
  


Six months he spent walking like a dead man, but then winter came and he had to stop. A shit nowhere village, perfectly tailored for someone who wanted to disappear from the face of the world.

Jaskier didn’t have the skill nor the reputation he would get much later and couldn’t dream to make the money he needed to stay for the season. He had the coins he’d saved from his brother's purse, but they would not last him enough.

He sold the horse, too cheap, he knew it, but the matron he sold it to also knew how much he needed to sell.

It would be enough for the worst of winter, but he would need to leave the inn before the grounds had fully thawed.

_Fuck it, might as well have a bit of fun before we all freeze to death._

He knocked on the door of the local prostitute, because that’s what men do right ?

“Believe it or not you’re not the first nor the last I’ve seen who wants to move freely without those two getting in the way.”

“It’s not… I’m not..?”

A sigh. The kind he’s heard used when kids asked stupid questions.

“Ok let’s be clear, I don’t care what’s your deal. Just don’t wear that for too long or it will fuck you up, and if you sing for a living you’re gonna be sorry.”

He must have blinked a thousand times before he managed to close his mouth. He was getting his clothes off and fumbled miserably with the laces on his corset-bodice thing, his hands shaking like he’d just heard the date and place of his death.

The woman looked at him with a smile that still hesitated between amusement and concern, pretty much naked and lounging in her bed, draped in some beast’s fur. She couldn't be that much older than him. Three, maybe ? But she made him feel like a trembling child he definitely wasn’t anymore.

“Look kid…”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Look girl…”

“I don’t think I’m a girl either.”

He’d spluttered that part like if it would have burnt his tongue if kept a single second more, and it both felt as if a horse had finally stepped away from his stomach and if he’d dropped a ten feet window blindfolded.

“ _Look_. I told you. I don’t care. But I don’t really know much ? There’s all kinds of folks digging all kinds of stuff but I haven't ever seen anyone binding their tits like that just for the fun of it.”

“But you _have_ seen people like me ?”

Jaskier's heart felt alive for the first time in half a year, and it was as exhilarating as it was painful to feel it thumping like a spring hare.

The woman was still looking at him but her painted smile had faded. Her head was tilted to the side, like she was trying to figure him out and it took an agonising while before she answered.

“I have. What’s your name ?”

The bard’s heart suddenly went cold again, and his gaze fell upon his hands.

“I… I don’t think I know anymore.”

For the first time since Jetsam, Jaskier felt the tears well up behind his eyes and had to fight them back. A rustling of fabric bristled near him as the woman rose up, put on a warm wool nightgown and went to grab a kettle and some herbs on a shelf.

“My name’s Maja. Do you want some tea ? Free of charge.”

A long, long time after that night, Jaskier would come to find he’d just been one shitty client away from getting told to get lost, and he’d laugh his heart out.

The season passed and he didn't finish it sleeping at the inn. Maja didn’t know everything he wanted to (barely anything at all, in retrospect) but she was kind and knew of ways girls who ran away from home lived, survived or thrived. 

“If you wanna be a man, go for it. What could the world throw at you that you didn’t risk already anyways ? Folks like us, we’re like weeds. No matter what, we’ll grow back and we’re stronger together.”

Summer was halfway done when Jaskier made his bag once again, and yet it felt like he’d spent years in that tiny house.

Things had changed.

He had changed.

He had a name.

Traded a flower for another, and the nobility of the former for the resilience of a weed.

And if he wasn’t done running from the past that had forged him, that meant he could still run onward, and that time he knew exactly where he was headed.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Life at Oxenfurt’s faculty of trouvereship and poetry was… Not exactly what Jaskier had expected it to be. Well, actually, he didn’t really know what he had expected it to be, but it certainly couldn’t have matched the reality of his first year studying there.

Getting signed up under “Jaskier” was ridiculously easier than he had anticipated. Ok, maybe it had been easier once he’d managed to use Julian’s seal to withdraw enough gold from his local account to be set for a bloody while, even after buying an enchanted quill to write to Esperanza while still pretending to be their brother. So what if his chest hurt a bit more every time he looked at the letters she wrote back ? So what if he felt the burning pang of shame whenever he had to open his purse ? It wasn’t like Julian had any use for that kind of money where he was, right ?

Maybe he started drinking too much again. And it was definitely easier than before when all he had to do was hang out with the right kind of spoiled students and drink on their tabs on wild nights out and about. After a season of precarious living trying to make ends meet with Maja by any means necessary, being among people who did not count every coin in their purse thrice before spending them was bordering on surreal.

So maybe, maybe, if he managed to catch a glimpse of a blonde student making said purses lighter when his rich “friends” were mostly out of it he kept it to himself (and honestly he wouldn't exactly call that pompous arse called Waldo or something his friend). Maybe when she caught him staring someday near the end of the second term he raised his drink at her in reverence, and maybe she ambushed him outside with a knife to make sure he wouldn’t tell on her. And maybe that is how Jaskier met Essi Daven, his very best friend in the whole city of Oxenfurt and for the years to come.

After a whole lot of various misunderstandings, Essi had finally come to accept : he wasn’t taking the piss at her ; he wasn’t going to tell on her ; and he wasn’t another one of the rich prats she usually took from unnoticed.

Well, he kinda was a rich prat, just a different kind.

Focus.

While younger than Jaskier, Essi had been at the academy for a full year before him, and was a treasure of information (of intel, he joked sometimes) on everyone and everything.

Second term was coming to an end, rich kids who only got enrolled for the kicks of it were either dropping out like flies or had finally gotten to do the work that was expected from everyone else to keep up with the classes. It was as good a time as any to slow down on the bullshit and focus on someone interesting at last, especially someone who knew exactly where Jaskier could turn his identity questions.

Professor Gwann, of Oxenfurt’s faculty of trouvereship and poetry was tall. Like, imposingly, impossibly tall. Even before Jaskier knew about their elvish heritage, their mere stature was highly (ah ! High !) suspicious to begin with. Rumors came and went far outside of the arts department as to how they could have gotten to such a prestigious teaching position while anti-elves discrimination flourished everywhere else (and frankly, the academy itself wasn’t as open minded as it claimed to be). Most rumours involved either physical threats or sexual emprise of sorts, but anyone who had set a foot in Gwann’s classes knew better : they were just damn good at their job.

Ancient rhymery was third year class that, on paper, would bore most students out their heads, and many skipped it altogether without ever realising their loss. So you must imagine the confused looks on the remaining students when a short first-year made his way into the first lesson of the third term (which happened to be the first a particularly long and complicated lecture on the evolution of rhythmics in Aen Seidhe post-conjunction poetry) and started taking notes like his life depended on it.

With all his initial bravado, it took Jaskier a whole month of sitting in the advanced lessons before he managed to gather the courage to stay at the end of a class to talk to the professor.

“As much as I am flattered that you value my lessons more than my registered students, I must say I find it quite rude that it took you so long to introduce yourself, young sir.”

Eight seconds may not sound much, but Jaskier could testify they feel like a whole lot more like an infinite void when spent mumbling and fumbling and looking for words. Fuck he was supposed to be good with those ! Still, Gwann was kindly smiling, no doubt waiting for an answer but in a very polite way.

“My name is Jaskier mister, err… Professor Gwann, sir ! I apologize for not introducing myself earlier, to be honest I didn’t really know if stowaways were supposed to make themselves known or lay low.”

“Is that so...”

Another thing about Professor Gwann. They had the strange habit to say the most ominous and threatening things, while their intentions were rarely anything but kind and polite. Unfortunately for him, Jaskier didn’t know that back then, and was twitching in place like a child caught the hand in the honey jar.

“Yeah, well… I also think I’d like to have your thoughts on something rather… Personal. I think you might be able to help me.”

Ok that was one of the worst introductions of his life but you’ve got to understand him. How was he supposed to actually know in advance that elves were not as short sighted as their human counterparts when it came to gender and all that kind of stuff ? Do you think they gave elf history lessons to princesses where he was from ? Yeah, well, that’s what he thought. 

“Young sir, while I am really flattered that you would turn yourself to me for those matters, I’m sure you can understand it is no simple task you ask of me and I already have my load of teaching work for the poetry department. I can help you find answers to the extent of my knowledge, but do not expect me to put on the work in your place. I have walked my path, that is true, but I cannot tell you what kind of life awaits you. It will be your never ending work to find out what you want for yourself and what will be the best way for you to live your truth. But rest assured : you are not alone, and as long as you walk these walls you will never be.”

And for the first time, Jaskier could see with his own two eyes that it was true.

To say Jaskier’s second year at the academy was a lot more studious than his first was a fucking euphemism. Lessons were still a bore and he still managed to get top of the class by bullshiting his way into a few all-nighters, but his extracurricular activities had suddenly gotten to an all-time high. With all Gwann’s talk about how they had work to do for the faculty, it was clear that the bardling wasn’t the only one who came to them for advice, and that some students even came from departments on the other side of the academy to talk to them. Quite the lot of little weirdos of their own, trying to put together a history of those like them who had crossed arbitrary lines and didn’t look back.

It wasn’t always friendship, per se, but the kind of true kinship he had lacked for so long. 

Spring was once again around the corner when the guards came.

Essi barged into his room one morning and started throwing his stuff into a burlap sack in a frenzy before he could even rise from his bed.

“They’re looking for you.”

“What…?”

“I said they’re coming for you. There are guards out there looking for someone who stole a fuckton of money from a prince, and possibly his identity, ring any bell ?”

The animal that had crept its way into Jaskier’s mouth to die during the night suddenly felt a lot better thank you very much, as the bardling jumped to his feet and into a pair of breeches sprayed on the floor.

“H… How ???”

Essi’s hands were quick and precise, stuffing the most necessary and discarding the rest with a frightening focus.

“Fuck if I know, but I saw that bastard Marx laughing his arse off when we heard they were talking to Gwann.”

“That slithering son of a…”

“Less murder plans, more getting the fuck out of here and how many fucking doublets do you even own ?!”

“Where the fuck are we supposed to go ?”

“We ?”

Her busy hands suddenly came to a stop and silence fell in the tiny room.

“Jaskier, you know I adore you, but I can’t come with you.”

As their gazes crossed, he felt stupid he even thought about dragging her further into his mess. As much as they cared about each other.

“Of course. Well, I suppose you leave me no choice but to write a song about the backstabbing beauty who abandoned her best friend to keep on snogging her student girlfriend ?”

The punch she threw into his shoulder would leave a mark for days, unless it would be from the bone crushing hug she gave him in the same swing.

“Can’t wait to hear your songs out there Buttercup.”

“Same for you Little Eye. Don’t you dare rot in here forever, the world needs to hear your voice.”

They rested their foreheads against each other for a second. For someone who was running so damn much, Jaskier would never get used to saying goodbye.

“Now get your ass and your lute ready, Pri is waiting for you with that bastard’s horse. Hopefully the damn pony will be at least half as good as he’s bragged about.”

“But I still have no idea where I should go !”

“You know, I hear Posada is quite beautiful this time of the year...”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The rest was history. He’d stumbled upon a certain witcher in a shady tavern, talked his way into following him for one adventure, one adventure turned into the best chunk of a decade and the takeoff of a brilliant career, until their path crossed a certain sorceress that would end up invading both his nightmares and dreams. And then crossed again. And again.

Well. He might have been called (and called himself) a lot of things, but Jaskier wasn’t naive nor blind. It was crystal clear that it couldn’t be a mere coincidence of the road across that wide a continent. And although said continent was already laughing its ass at how obvious and one-sided the poet’s crush on the white wolf was, he didn’t fancy the feelings of humiliation, shame and envy that twisted his guts every time he saw their love marks on each other.

What wasn’t entirely history was that they ended up having a fall-out long before that dreaded mountain business, and that he’d taken his cue to leave the witcher for the longest time in all their shared story.

What was definitely not history was his destination after that fight (which may or may not have been about him trying to force the witcher to address the subject of Pavetta and Duny’s deaths at sea). Because, being the little shit he more than often prided himself to be, he had made a beeline for Cintra.

Admittedly, the very first time he had shown his face in Calanthe’s court, he had nearly lost his head and it had taken quite the lucky turn of events (of fate, would he dare say ?) that Eist managed to talk the queen down, reminding her of their host’s impeccable reputation as a musician in noble houses all across the continent.

“It’s that witcher’s bard.” She spat, the light in her eyes unmistakably more fear than hate, but wasn’t fear even more dangerous to see in a lioness ?

“Excuse me, your majesty, but as far as I’m concerned I am my own bard, just as much as you aren't “Eist Tuirseach’s queen” !”

Fear immediately turned into shock, which in turn became a roar of laughter Jaskier hadn’t dared hope for but was damn glad to hear. Beside Calanthe, the king was smiling too and gave him a discreet wink. Even if everything went tits up he should be keeping his head for a while.

“All I’m asking for is a place to stay and write my music for the season, somewhere I’m sure I will not see his face.”

“I thought poets thrived so much on the pieces of their broken hearts they ran towards the drama, not away from it. What are you running from, bard ? Petty lovers’ quarrels again ?”

 _Aouch_.

“I suppose common ruffians may need the reminders, if they are too thick to learn their lessons, but the true poet needs no such artifice !”

Calanthe’s smile was so outrageously calling him on his bullshit he had to remind himself that antagonising her would not go well for him, and so he set to keep his mouth shut after that last jab.

“You may stay for three months, and that is all. You will not talk to anyone of my daughter’s wedding and you will never, ever talk to our granddaughter.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

  
  


“Grandmother, is it true the bard Jaskier was only meant to be with us for a short amount of time ?”

“Yes, cub ?”

“Then how come he’s been teaching me for five years now ?”

Jaskier may or may not have spit his wine when Mousesack told him of the exchange, and was very much torn between how much he wished he could have seen the look on Calanthe's face and how thankful he was that he was nowhere near her sight when it happened.

To be honest, he _had_ hoped it would come to this when he had struck the deal with the queen. The lioness of Cintra may have been famously proud, she was just as much soft hearted when it came to her cub.

Having his place in a court again was somehow easier than he had expected at first. Could have been the very different position between a bard and a royal heir, could have been the two decades he’d had to gradually earn a solid reputation of quality entertainment to the noble and powerful, could have been the lack of parental abuse. Who could know right ?

He wasn’t at court for two weeks before he was called to play at a banquet in the honor of the newly knighted Sir Danek, during which a small blonde child had crawled under his seat during a break and refused to leave with her nursemaid until he’d sung her a lullaby.

The next week, Jaskier was called to entertain during the private dinners the queen and king had with their advisors and foreign dignitaries.

The next month, he was called to play during the family dinners the queen and king shared with their granddaughter and her cousins from Skellige.

Shortly before the three months deadline came, Ciri’s private music tutor became too ill to teach, and if she was lucky to have a marvelous recovery for a woman her age she still had to stop teaching for her sake.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t Calanthe who offered the job to Jaskier, and Eist did a very poor job at conceding how much the situation made him laugh.

By the end of spring, Jaskier knew he was fucked.

He had came to Cintra with the clear intention of 1. Getting away from Geralt and 2. Keeping an eye on the kid to A. Piss off Geralt and B. Make sure _this_ princess would have a friendly face to turn to if her grandmother went batshit crazy on her. 

Well that last point was both a success and a failure, because while he had undeniably become very much liked by Cirilla and adored the kid to no extent, Calanthe was ten times more in love with her than he could ever be, and between the lioness, Eist, and Mousesack, the kid was certainly one of the most loved noble heir Jaskier had ever seen in his life.

And so time passed. It was a good job, and somehow more gratifying than the lectures Gwann had invited him to make at Oxenfurt the past years. As soon as the word had gotten out that he was the princess’s private music teacher nobles and rich wannabes tried to force their kids to his lessons, but he had gotten quite skillful at finding out if the children were actually interested in the music or were just puppeteered by their families.

“I thought you didn’t even like kids.”

Sir Danek asked one night over ale, after the bard had spent a good half hour rambling about how one particularly snobby father had walked out on him when Jaskier had informed him the lessons were private and that no, his son would not get to meet the lion cub of Cintra over the pretext of playing lute (the boy looked so sad it was heartbreaking, it didn’t take much to see he didn’t care about the princess so much as about the music).

“Thought so too. Turns out it gets easier when you realise they’re just tiny people and you stop thinking they’re all the same. That way you can like or despise them individually and they’re just as bearable as anyone really.”

They laughed, and kissed, and fucked. Danek was a good and loyal man. It may not have been a love story to last for ages, just two friends who cared for each other and found comfort in each other's arms, but it was a good thing to have. A good man to be by his side.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Years passed. The princess grew and the queen’s trust grew too, allowing him leaves to go on adventures (and spying missions on her behalf but hey, who could brag about getting paid vacations from their castle work ?). Jaskier suspected Calanthe knew very well his steps had taken him back to Geralt, who on his end never really questioned how a bard could make the kind of money he had in his purse on the regular. Yet, he never felt bold enough to put that theory to test.

He kept his end of the bargain and his mouth shut. Destiny was no reason enough to force a child to go with a man who did not know anything or even cared about her.

Cirilla of course would have grumbled like the teenager she would be soon enough if she’d heard him (or anyone, really) call her a child. 

She grew restless, hungry for the outside too. Clearly the trips to Skellige weren’t enough for her to get everything out of her system and the music lessons turnt into confessions more and more.

Maybe, just maybe, he was the one who brought up the idea of the disguised adventures from time to time.

Maybe, just maybe the trust and confessions went both ways and he ended up telling her of his story. Well, at least a part of it.

As Cirilla grew, the two of them grew closer. She didn’t want to run away like he did, but they understood each other, and Jaskier knew how to smooth her raw edges and convince her grandmother to compromise.

But the problem with smart and growing kids was that their smarts grow too, and sometimes more than you’d wish.

“I know you were a princess. Not a prince. I just don’t know how that’s possible.”

The bard-teacher’s fingers froze on the strings of the oud he was trying to tune. Melitele’s tits he really was an idiot if he thought she’d never notice.

“Well, that’s definitely not the way I wanted to tell you but since we’re already there !”

_What was it again ? Kids are just tiny people ?_

Carefully, he put down the instrument and took Cirilla’s hand in his to invite her to sit near him on a cushioned bench by the window in his study.

“There are things you will need to know before you rule, princess, for if you wanna rule your people you must be a ruler for all and not just some.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I promise you I’ll do my best so you will. After all, I’m your favourite teacher, am I not ?”

She scoffed, and he cleared his throat, unsure if that was to chase a slight discomfort or to buy some time.

“The way you’ve been taught, men are born with certain parts, and women with others…”

“Fuck, is that going to be another talk about how one day I’m going to bleed like hell and that will make me a true woman or some shit ?!”

Jaskier blinked once, then twice, then let out a full out roar of laughter, bent in half over his own lap and under Ciri’s irritated gaze.

“What, what did I say ?? Stop making fun of me !”

The bard wiped out a tear of laughter from his eyes and did his best to contain another fit.

“Oh, my dear sweet cub with the mouth of a sailor, don’t you dare ever change… I’m not laughing at you, and no, this is not this kind of talk, quite the opposite.”

He seated himself again, most of the apprehension having left his body. Cirilla was right, he needed to stop thinking of her like the small child she was when he’d met her. She was well past her eleventh year and had taken quite a lot of her franc parler from her grandmother (and maybe, he hoped, from one particular teacher).

“As I was saying, we’re taught women have some parts, men have others, and that it is enough to justify a mountain of made up differences between the two. What is a lot less known, is that many people don’t actually feel that way. We are treated like one sex for quite an amount of time, but it never feels right. Eventually, some of us may choose to change the way we present ourselves to the world, be it with our names, our clothes, the ways we act with others, or all of that and then more !”

As he talked, he kept his eyes on the girl in front of him, who looked way more focused than he’d seen her in months during their lessons.

“As far as I am concerned, I am a man, and I don’t think anyone who has met me fully clothed would disagree.”

 _And I sure as fuck hope that those who have seen me naked wouldn't either_.

“My parents and their midwife thought of me as a girl and a princess when I was born. Unfortunately for them I was none of those, and unfortunately for me they didn't give a fuck about that. Any kind of freedom I had was something they felt was stolen from them, their control, their legacy, their views of the world where men and women have very strict and different roles, rights and rules.”

“But why couldn't women have the same rights as men then ?”

“While that would be truly amazing my dear, and I must say I hope I’ll live to see that day, I don’t think any one of us would change back even if it were the case. There are people like me in every kingdom and empire, whether they are ruled by men’s hands or women’s doesn't change that. Besides, there are also women who were thought to be men at birth. Are you familiar with the Countess de Stael maybe ?”

“I think I heard the name… I think she’s from Redania or something ?”

“Exactly, princess, quite an exquisite woman, and more than that, she's very proud about what she calls the ‘extra gifts nature gave her’.”

Jaskier shuddered. As much as the Countess used that sentence proudly and publicly, it felt weird and out of place in this context. He needed to get back on track.

“What I am trying to say cub, is that there are more ways to be a man, a woman, or something else altogether than we are originally taught, just like there are more ways to love or to build a family, and that I hope you keep it in mind when you have the power to rule us all.”

The girl stared at him, silent and her brows still furrowed, but this time it looked a lot less like confusion, and more like she was thinking way, way too hard.

“But… You could have done that. You could have had that power… But you ran.”

A sigh.

“Yes. I did. But to be honest, before I could have any power and do any good I would have needed to survive my parents and their… Methods. And I don’t think I’d be here today to talk to you if I had tried to do that.”

Ciri’s gaze fell to their hands. A silence. 

“I am glad I have my grandparents. And Mousesack. And Sir Danek. And you. I’m sorry you couldn’t have that too. But I’m still scared of what will happen if I realise I can’t rule the way everyone expects me to. I don’t even know if I want to rule either.”

There was something simmering under the surface there, something deeper than what Jaskier thought to be mere curiosity. The bard wondered how much the taboo of her chaotic powers played into all that

Gently, he tugged on her hand to invite her into his arms in a hug, his other hand buried in her white gold locks.

They stayed like this for a while, until the booming voice of some other noble bringing his kid for a lesson was heard down the hall. Before they split up, the child (not a child anymore) looked at Jaskier again with pleading eyes.

“Will you stay by my side, even if I’m never ready to be a queen ?”

“Always my cub. Always.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


He was sent to Caingorn to keep an eye on the alliance with Malleore and got bored out of his own head. Even for someone without his talents for people, it was painfully obvious that Niemir was a fool, blinded by the charms of a girl a third of his age but thrice smarter than him.

 _Good for her_.

She was no threat, and the weirdest thing about her was her obsession with some new crops from some foreign land he could not remember the name of. Booooooring, and absolutely no reason for Cintra to be concerned (contrary to the turmoils of the south but hey, he went where Calanthe sent him).

Of course he had to run into Geralt.

Of course he had to feel his heart run in his chest like a startled deer and burst into flames like a belleteyn bonfire.

Of course he hadn’t spent more than three fucking days with the witcher before Yennefer of fucking Vengeberg appeared.

Fucking hells he wanted to run, but… The songs he could write about the dragon hunt.

Fucking stupid ego.

Fucking stupider Geralt of fucking Rivia.

As the white wolf lashed out at him for trying to soothe his wounds, Jaskier was quiet. He knew Geralt didn't mean a single word, just like he knew offering him an out would never work with the witcher’s martyr complex.

It still hurt like hell.

The bard walked down the mountain feeling more alone than he’d been in years.

 _You don’t deserve Cirilla you fucking moron_.

He needed to go back to Cintra.

He was too late.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning : there is a story of abortion and quite a big discussion of reproductive and bodily autonomy rights in this chapter, so I'd advise to tread carefully if those are subjects close to your hearts. If you'd like to avoid that scene, please stop reading between “Who was she ?” and "“Do you really think I need your permission to be angry, bard ?"

He’s too late.

By the time Jaskier sets foot in Razwan, he is so used to the flow of refugees going the opposite way he almost doesn't realise how massive their numbers are near the town.

Cintra has fallen.

Calanthe is dead.

Everyone is dead.

Not _everyone_. 

There is a rumour, a whisper, that a kid with long blonde hair and a royal blue cloak was taken on a horse by a nilfgaardian officer.

He plays and sings for the families and the soldiers, his ears wide open. This is what he’s good at, raising morale and paying attention.

Someone knows him for the witcher song and tells him a white haired mean looking guy was seen entering the castle from a back door not long before…

Before.

Jaskier's heart falls to his ankles. Of all the bloody moments to find himself some decency, has Geralt really, really chosen the worst possible ?

Or maybe the best, if he’s managed to get his hand on Ciri before everything ?

No, it was a nilfgaardian who took the princess, there aren’t many witnesses but they all agree on that.

After a week he’s heard enough to know that both Ciri and Geralt made it far enough out of the burning remains of Cintra, and that both have been last seen in the same area near Sodden but not together. After that, their traces have vanished.

If the lute wasn’t his only mean to make a coin, Jaskier would have bitten his nails down to the bone a long time ago. Time is running out, the princess is out there somewhere, and maybe she’s found Geralt on her way (he hopes so, he prays so), but that will not make her less lonely. He needs to find her, to make sure she’s okay. He has made a promise and refuses to break it.

Desperate time, desperate needs.

There is a tent he’s avoided since his arrival. It’s one of too many that hold the sick and wounded, but this one is special. This one is where the mages who fought at Sodden are being cared for.

It is said the White Flame is always looking for new sorcerers and does not care for their willingness, and so every single lowlife magic user has fled the area now, corner herborists and elven midwives all too scared to get caught by a rogue squadron and brought back to the other side. The only chaos meddlers to be found within a riding day are here, and Jaskier needs a scryer.

Just as the bard is entering the white tent that smells of ashes and death, he runs into Yennefer of Vengerberg.

Yennefer of _fucking_ Vengerberg has her eyes starring at the nothing and her arm wrapped around the shoulder of a quite large healer, who in turn has his hand upon her waist in case she stumbles. Yennefer of _fucking_ Vengerberg, the woman he would have thought ready to burn the whole world and piss on its ashes was at the battle of Sodden to fight off the invaders.

Suddenly, and for a very short second, Jaskier forgets about looking for Cirilla and only has eyes for the weakened sorceress straining to put one foot in front of the other.

He hears her voice bickering with the man by her side about something he doesn’t care about and the fleeting moment is gone. The bard shakes his head, gives one look at the head healer making various salves and ointments with dark circles threatening to swallow her whole face below her eyes, and turns his heels.

The _plan_ was supposed to be simple : go to the mage tent, bribe his way in with music or coin, and find himself someone still in enough pieces to make a scrying spell for him, bribe them too, get Geralt and Ciri’s locations, and then improvise depending on those.

But now Yennefer (of fucking Vengerberg) is involved somehow, and now the plan has to change because he knows. He knows that no matter how badly he doesn't want to stick his hand in _that_ engrenage of craziness he won’t have a choice. Tailing a man dead set on cheating fate for years has taught him that much. Fits together doesn't it ? A witcher bound both to a magical child with no mother and to a witch who’d want nothing more than a child of her own. Why would he even bother...

_Fucking hell Jaskier pull yourself together we’re talking about Ciri here, stick that overgrown ego somewhere else._

Well. What’s a bard if not attracted by great destinies like a moth to a candle.

Yennefer is blind.

The healer he’s been flirting with for the last three days tells Jaskier, far enough that the sorceress can’t hear them. Blind, or at least blinded, if that makes any difference. Seeing (ah ! Seeing !) how she’s recovered so far there are good chances it’s only a temporary side effect, but no one can really tell. At the day’s brightest hours she sees moving shadows around her, but as the sun goes down so does her sight, and the days are getting shorter.

Something in the bard’s guts twists, and something else keeps his mouth shut, feelings of guilt and discomfort still lingering in his entrails. Two more days it takes before she’s alone on a bench while her helper is gone to check on something and Jaskier sits by her side.

“Yennefer.”

She doesn’t even bat an eye, and it is still such a strange sight to see her without the polished makeup and attires.

“Bard. I was wondering when you’d finally stop creeping around me. Did I not suffer enough to get at least some peace ?”

Should have known startling the sorceress would not be an option in the first place. To hell with pleasantries then.

“I need your help.”

He expects another jab, another drop of acid, but is only met with silence.

“Nilfgaard is after Geralt and his child surprise. I need to find them.”

“What do I have to gain ?”

“Excuse me ?”

“You heard me bard. What good would it make me to once again spend my precious energy on that bloody witcher, or you for that matter ?”

The bard feels red in the face, his breath almost taken by the rage.

“Was your head so severely damaged that you did not hear me say the part about his _child_ , witch ?”

“I can hear you perfectly well, and if you keep pestering me so will this whole camp when I turn your guts into lute strings.”

“And that would be a better use of your precious energy than helping me rescue a kid ?”

“If you think yourself more capable of protecting a kid than a witcher you definitely need help, but certainly not any kind I could give.”

It takes Jaskier a very, very big chunk of his willpower not to lose his temper at his only chance to see Cirilla in the foreseeable future.

“I don’t _know_ that they’re together at the moment, just that they were both running in the same direction. That’s why I am unfortunately in need of your assistance.”

Yennefer falls silent again, and if he wasn’t so angry and antsy maybe he’d realise it’s very much not like her. A moment passes and Jaskier is about to get up and leave when she finally speaks again.

“Why is Nilfgaard so dead set on catching this girl in particular ?”

Now is the tricky part. How to catch a sorceress. If bards are drawn to great destinies, he hopes magic users would be the same with mysterious powers.

“Well, it would appear Geralt may or may not have accidentally claimed as his child surprise the sole heiress to the throne of Cintra… And to her great-grandmother Adalia’s abilities.”

Ah, _touchée_ , at last ! The sorceress raises an eyebrow in an attempt to show contempt but the surprise is still visible on her face, as well as the cogs that start stirring and scheming in her head.

“Well, I guess _that_ makes sense…”

“What do you mean ?”

“The witcher and the girl are together, if that was your concern. Must have been quite the reunion if the vision I received is to be believed.”

“Didn’t think you were a seer.”

“And yet you came for me in hope I could scry for you, figures. Now would you like to know where they are or would you rather keep on wasting both our times ?”

Jaskier reluctantly keeps another jab to himself.

“As I was saying. I can tell you where they are.”

“Well ?”

“One condition. You get me the hell out of here on your way.”

The bard almost chokes, feigning surprise and outrage while underneath his heart starts to race.

“I beg your pardon ?”

“Did all that insufferable fiddle playing ruin your ear bard ? I said if you want me to help you you’re going to be my escort out of this wretched place. They all think because the battle is won Nilfgaard will be gone to lick their wounds elsewhere, but I know they won’t stop. She won’t stop.”

There will certainly be a time to be offended about the fiddle comment, as well as another to ask who the hell “she” is, but now is not that time because maybe, just maybe Jaskier might get the chance he’s been hoping for.

“And where shall I take you exactly ?”

“I will let you know in time. Do we have a deal ?”

It’s a trap. Could be a trap ? But who would he be to take offense at her scheming while trying to rope her in one of his own ?

“Shall we shake on it ? I always thought you needed to shake hands to seal a deal with a devil.”

Her glossy eyes shoot daggers at him but she still extends her hand, the bard doesn’t think twice before shaking it and is quite surprised to find her grip shaky, before remembering her current affliction.

“Is that it ?”

“What did you expect ? Thunders and lightning ? A blood pact ? I told you bard, you are not worth spending my chaos.”

“You would trust me like that ?”

“I trust you as far as I can throw you, but I’m confident you have enough self preservation to know not to cross me or underestimate me.”

Fair enough.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to rest. I’ll wait for you and the horses tomorrow at dawn.”

“What about your end of the deal ? Where are Geralt and the kid ?”

The smile on her face as she rises from her seat and dusts herself off is not unlike a content feral cat.

“I can’t tell you where they are now, but I have seen where they’re headed. They’re going to the witchers’ fortress in the north. And that’s exactly where you’re going to take me.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They leave at dawn, just as Yennefer commanded, and Jaskier would love just a tiny bit of respect, or at least some acknowledgement for the feat of putting together two travel horses and supplies for at least a month in record time. He knows this is not his usual spring adventure, walking on Geralt's tracks, stopping at fancy inns along the way and forcing his friend to get rest on something softer than a rock.

If there are rogue agents looking for Geralt on this side of the front line, then Jaskier and Yennefer may as well wear a big ol’ banner with the witcher’s crest on their backs. Somehow, very strangely, it would seem that a lot of people on the continent have heard about their lives, almost as if they’d heard it in songs. Weird, isn’t it ?

The irony seems to be lost on the sorceress, who stares at him with silent disdain when he brings it up lightly while saddling her horse for her. Tough crowd, and once again he wonders why he ever thought it would be a good idea.

(He knows, he knows, but that won’t stop him from being bitter, thank you very much.)

At least the healer who brought Yennefer to the meeting point thought it was funny.

This is going to be a long road.

After twenty years following the witcher you’d think he’d be used to silent companionship and chattering away to someone who doesn’t pay him any attention. But the thing is, Geralt actually did respond to the bard’s banter after a while, and eventually Jaskier could tell he had come to like those exchanges, even if he still played the huffy grumpy witcher.

So, it’s been a while since he’s had an actual travel companion who can’t stand his arse, and truth be told, he’s a bit too preoccupied with Ciri and Geralt’s sake to perform too much of his usual cheerful witty banter in hope of getting Yennefer to crack up. Oh gods, he’s getting old...

Not that the sorceress is in any better shape herself.

The horses he bought are used to a carriage, and have been working together for a while now, so they walk the same pace side by side even without being bridled together. Blind or not, weakened or not, he is under no illusion Yennefer would find a very creative way to make him suffer if he tried to tether her to him, but that won’t stop him from checking on her discreetly.

“Would you stop looking at me like I’m going to burst into a murder of crows ?”

Ah, not so discreetly then.

“You’re tired, we should make a halt.”

“I’m only tired of your incessant yapping, bard, we could go on for another mile if you kept your mouth shut.”

“Yeah, whatever you say, we have to stop and eat so the horses can rest anyway.”

He can hear her scoff as he dismounts and wedges his reins behind a stirrup.

“Will you need a hand ?”

She doesn’t gratify him with an answer and gets to her feet almost (almost) effortlessly. Looks like it’s, well, like riding a horse : You never quite forget.

Their first weeks would go by as smoothly as an exhausting and stressful travel between old… Opposites could go ( _rivals_ , he thinks, but remembers rivalry would entail he ever had a chance with Geralt) if it weren’t for the nights.

There is only one tent for the two of them, which again is already quite impressive, might he remind her, considering the very high demand for getting-out-of-this-hell supplies in the general vicinity of the Cintran border. The tent is quite large, for something that has not been altered with some magical artifices, and there is enough space that their bedrolls don’t have to be too close.

But when dusk falls and the sorceress has retreated for the night, the bard stays near the fire, and it usually doesn’t take long before the nightmares start.

It takes him maybe two, three occurrences of getting thrown out with curses by the witch for waking her up in the middle of night terrors before he decides to resolutely sit them out and fidget with his lute instead to busy his head and hands.

It takes him maybe ten, twenty minutes of softly strumming the strings and muttering to himself before he realises the panting and crying have stopped.

They don’t mention it by daylight, but now Jaskier knows he can soothe her pain, even if just a little.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You’re blonde.”

They’ve just passed Dorndall, this is their fourth stop for the day and Jaskier was seriously considering setting camp already when the words make his blood freeze in his veins. Looks like his days of not worrying about the witch’s gaze are over, which is a shame really. He quite enjoyed not having to bind his chest at all hours of the day.

But despite the lingering fear he can’t help a soft relief for her sake.

“And you can see colours now, so we both know something the other had hidden beforehand. Isn’t it marvelous ?”

She may roll her eyes, but he can see the glint of a smile on the corner of her lips.

There certainly is a softness he had never managed to see underneath the cold facade of her amethyst eyes, and with her forces coming back slowly she seems less afraid of letting him see so.

“So, why the discoloured roots, blondie ? Trying out a new style ? Getting too old to care for your hair ?”

“I am wounded, Yennefer, and from the amount of oil I graciously let you borrow from my personal stock you should know I am very proud of my glorious hair care !”

“So, a bad fashion statement it is.”

An outraged and strangled sound finds its way out of the bard’s throat, but he can’t quite totally suppress a smile.

“I will let you know, you devil of a woman, that it is not everywhere you can find mignonette tree powder, and I’d rather save mine for civilised company !”

“Am I not civilised enough for you ? You _wound_ me, bard.”

His smile is very much un-suppressed now, seeing how it’s turnt into a cackle.

“You’re funny ! Why did I ever think you weren't funny ?”

“You were usually too busy disrespecting me to actually pay any attention to what I was saying.”

“I was, wasn’t I ?”

He stares at the horizon. The sun is starting to set and he has a wonderful view on the Ismena. He knows Jetsam is somewhere to the east, close enough they could stop there without deviating too much from their course if he wanted. He shakes his head at the thought.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I shouldn't have treated you the way I did. I don’t know why…”

“We both know why.”

A sigh.

“I guess we do.”

They stay quiet for a moment, light mood suddenly dimmed, the silence only troubled by the occasional thrush calling above their heads. 

“I guess your persistence finally paid off then. No doubt at least after that bloody mountain business you didn’t have to worry about me getting in your way anymore.”

He turns his head towards her carefully.

“What are you... Yennefer, are you perhaps under the impression that Geralt and I got _closer_ after that shitshow ?”

“Isn’t that the case ? Isn’t that why you’re hellbent on getting back to him like a lost puppy ?”

The hollow laughter takes the bard by surprise as he feels his eyes getting watery.

“This may be the funniest thing you said tonight witch.”

Jaskier raises to his feet and goes for the camp supplies, anything to keep his hands busy.

“Geralt left me too. I tried to be there for him after you pushed him away, _not that I think you didn’t have good reasons for that please don’t look at me like you’re about to gut me with a wooden spoon_ . I tried, but he lashed out at me like _I_ was the one responsible for his own actions. We didn't speak after that, and we went our separate ways.”

Yennefer's eyes seem to glow in the setting sun as she’s watching him unpack everything they need for the night.

“And yet you are running after him. Why ?”

“If I may be honest with you, it's not so much about him than about the girl. She’s a scared child who just lost everything, now she has to live with the most emotionally constipated fucker this continent has ever seen, and on top of that you’re telling me they’re going to hole up in a castle full of socially inept men ? What could possibly go wrong ?”

“So you have no idea if you will be welcome, but you are committed to cross two entire countries to impose yourself on said pack of socially inept witchers ?”

He smirks.

“That’s the plan, it’s not foolproof but hey, that has seemed to work for me so far !”

She shakes her head with, dares he say, some kind of fondness on her face.

“You are an insufferable fool, running after rejection.”

“Maybe I am. But where does that leave you then ?”

Ah, there, fondness is gone and the knives are back. That’s a relief, as her smiles seem almost scarier than her murdery facade.

“Ok, ok, dropping it, I’m dropping it. Now come on, I don’t think we’re going anywhere tonight. Can you brush the horses ? Ooooh, and now that you can see better you could be the one making dinner now !”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Another glint of smile in her eye.

“How is your sight, actually ? And no defensive bullshit this time, please ?”

She extends a hand toward the reddened afternoon sky and looks at her fidgeting fingers.

“It’s like I have the worst pair of glasses ever crafted and I can’t get them off. Everything is blurry, and if I try and squint for too long I end up seeing dark spots everywhere.”

“That sounds… Difficult. Is it painful ?”

“Not as much as listening to your nonsense all day long. I will manage.”

“You don’t have to keep it to yourself you know. You can ask for halts, and I won’t judge you for it.”

“I’ll try and keep it in mind.”

Well, that’s a bit better than he expected.

She gets to her feet and goes towards the horses.

“Thank you, bard.”

That is a _lot_ better than he expected.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


He knows she suspects something. Dangling Cirilla’s powers might have been enough for him to have her attention, but it would raise questions for anyone as to how the fuck a simple bard would be aware of said powers. Add in the balance that he openly admitted to be more worried about the girl he’s barely supposed to know than for the witcher.

So what surprises him is not that she’d ask about it, but that it took her so long to do so.

They’ve crossed the border with Kaedwen, and are far enough on their road (and exhausted enough) that they feel safe to stop at an inn rather than in the middle of nowhere. But inn might be too much of a word as well. A roadhouse, maybe ? It’s not somewhere the bard can hope to make a coin for his entertainment but they both get a hot meal that isn’t rabbit and berries, some wine, and a bucket full of hot water that gets delivered to their room.

Well, maybe it isn't that surprising that Yennefer waits for him to be sleepy from the bath and the meal and the wine before she pries him open.

“So, how did you know about the princess’s powers exactly ?”

Jaskier rubs his face with one hand, the other playing mindlessly with his empty cup.

“I… I don’t know ? Pavetta almost killed everyone at her wedding because of a mood swing, I assumed her girl must be the same.”

“Bullshit. You mentioned Adalia. Not that many people know about her, and I don’t think you’re that big of a fan of Cintran royal history.”

“May I remind you I studied in Oxenfurt, why don’t you give me a little more credit ? Come on witch, I thought we were bonding, why do you care anyway ?”

“You should care about your safety if I find out you lied to me bard. You should already be thankful I chose not to take offence at your scheme.”

A shiver of terror trickles down his spin, but as he crosses the mage’s gaze he’s relieved to only find mild annoyance and even milder tipsiness.

“Oh don’t give me that look songbird, of course I know you wanted me to come with you to find Cerena since the beginning. I just can’t figure out why.”

“Cirilla. Her name is Cirilla.”

She should jump on the occasion to put even more pressure on him. Why isn’t she jumping on the occasion ? Why is she so _nice_ ?

“You say we’re bonding and you want me to trust you. How am I supposed to do that if you don’t trust me ?”

That is… Even more effective than the aggression and (empty, he knows that now) threats he had come to expect from a scorned sorceress. She’s… Right. She’s right. She has spent the last month in her most vulnerable state by his side and he’s still keeping everything from her.

“Yennefer… You are right. That’s not fair.”

He sighs and empties the bottle in both their cups.

“Where should I start ?”

He tells her everything. Well. No, that's a lie. Not everything. His past is still his own and the perspective of sharing that with her is… Too much. But he tells her about Cintra. About the feast for Pavetta, and about Geralt saving Duny. About Calanthe and Eist. About Mousesack and Danek. And most of all, he tells her about Ciri. How smart and hot headed and stubborn his princess can be. How she was loved, so much, by her family. How he looked out for her any way he could, not to get any reward from Geralt no, but because he cares so much about her.

He’s panting with exaltation when he stops stalking, and he can feel his eyes getting wet from the emotion. It is hard to describe the look on Yennefer's face, mostly because he’s plastered mind you.

“You are really fond of that kid.”

“Fond ? Fond ? Fond doesn't even begin to cut it. She’s the greatest kid that ever was and ever will be ! She’s perfect in all of her imperfect ways, and had Cintra not fallen she would have become the only leader I would ever follow. I’m not just fond of Cirilla, I would give my life for her !”

“You sound like a dad lovestruck for his daughter.”

He chuckles as he takes another sip.

“I do, don’t I ? I very much do. You’ll get it when you meet her.”

The laugh fades from his lips as a memory from the mountain disaster comes bubbling to the surface of his mind. Silence settles for a while, before Yennefer speaks that unusually soft voice again.

"With the trail of broken hearts and wrecked homes you leave behind you, I'd be surprised if you didn't have at least a few bastards scattered across the continent."

Her tone is teasing but her eyes have that glimpse of... Melancholy, longing, regrets...? He's not sure what name would suit best that particular turmoil of emotions coming from the sorceress, and he feels like a stone has been dropped in his wine-filled stomach.

He heard how the power mages get from their school is paid for in blood.

He wants to tell her. Wants to share with her, how much he knows, intimately. The fear. The pain. How he'd learnt to be safe thanks to Maja, along with her even sometimes. The fear the usual herbs would suddenly stop working and what comes after. How bleeding every month is both a threat to the life he has built for himself and the blessed sign his body is still his and only his.

He dares not, and instead lays his hands upon the table, palms up and inviting comfort. He knows she would not hesitate twice before breaking his wrists if he tried to impose his touch. To his greatest surprise, she considers him for a second and carefully puts one hand in his.

Is it funny that she looks as if she’s the one who could lose her hand in the soft gesture, or is it heart breaking ? There is electricity in her fingers, he can feel her tension, not unlike a kid who has been screamt at to stop fidgeting, and he squeezes her hand so slightly, as if it could magically express the extent of his feelings for both their cruel fates.

It’s as if somehow they can, because Yen’s eyes quietly change expression and she mouths a silent “oh”.

Time seems to stop for a floating moment. If Jaskier didn’t know she’s still too drained for magic, he would think she is reading his mind, her brows furrowed for a second before raising in a painful and compassionate way and… Screw all that, Jaskier is definitely scared she’s reading his mind and it’s another thing she’s holding back to reveal when convenient.

“There was someone, wasn’t there ?” Yennefer’s voice is soft, almost a whisper.

“Who was she ?”

He swallows his saliva, suddenly a bit more sober, uncomfortable and scared but decides to go along.

“Her name was Maja. We tried to avoid it, but we fucked up… There was a woman. A midwife. She was known around and she was kind, she tried to warn us it could still be dangerous.”

“I take it she was no mage ?”

A bittersweet smile passes on Jaskier’s lips.

“Oh my dear, I think you know how high-end mages would rather turn themselves into a swarm of hornets on the spot rather than stay an unnecessary second in the kind of shithole we were in.”

Yennefer’s hand stiffen in his and he rubs it with his thumb, unsure as if to soothe her or himself.

“It went well at first, everything seemed to be fine. But two days later the fever started. We stayed by her side for a whole week, the midwife and I. She tried every herb, bark and tea she knew of to clear her blood of the infection.”

Jaskier breathes in deeply.

“Maja made it by the edge of her teeth. I will always remember her voice when the fever finally broke. I thought I would never shed a tear again in my life after that because it felt as if I had cried a whole ocean of relief !”

He hears Yennefer sigh, sees the tension in her shoulders falter a bit and the confusion in her amethyst eyes.

“What happened then ?”

“After some time I went back on the road and we stopped seeing each other. She found a husband, an honest to Gods man who did not care about her life before him. I still don’t know if there was love, but there sure was more respect than anything she’d expected to share...”

Another gulp for air.

“Maja almost died during childbirth a year after they married. The same midwife was at her side and did her best, once more. Said that with all the blood she’d lost it was a fucking miracle she was still breathing. Also said, and I quote…”

Jaskier clears his throat and gives his best impression of an old lady’s voice.

“I don’t want to see your feckin’ cunt ever again girl I’m out, I’m out !!’”

Yennefer blinks once. Then twice. She certainly didn't expect the dramatic buildup to have a happy end and Jaskier can feel the scoff coming in her mouth. At least now he’s certain she’s not peeking in his brain. Hook, line, and sinker, all in the name of the perfect distraction, and that, ladies and gentlefolks is why Jaskier is a fucking. Good. Bard. And also plastered.

“Maja and her husband named their girl Kasia, after the midwife, and the crone didn’t lie : she was done ! But before she stopped altogether, she did pass her science on, to none other than Maja herself. I hear she’s doing quite well, so well she has to leave town to help others like her. Must be why she wasn’t around last time I stopped by.”

A smile passes on his lips and Jaskier closes his eyes as he recalls the little girl’s voice playing outside when her dad had sat with him in their house and told him the story over a bottle of wine. 

In his palm, Yennefer’s hand wriggles free, but he knows she won’t break the silence soon, probably trying to process or remember what the original discussion was about.

He tells himself there is no need to mention he had definitely not been the father when Maja had found herself in need of the abortion, barely a month after himself. What difference would it make ? He was by her side every step of the way, tricked by the same merchant who had sold them the wrong plant. He had sung until his voice was like chalk on a rock and the merchant had to close shop, with not a soul in miles that didn’t know of his deception.

That, ladies and gentlefolks, was the true power of music. Because if a single tune managed to get the people of a shithole village to suddenly care about a whore, so much that the baker’s son would end up bringing her food and eventually asking for her hand… Well there can’t be that much it can not do.

 _Oh gods Jaskier you are so drunk_.

“The point is, I know folks think I am a fumbling idiot who thinks with his cock. But I do my best so there is no bastard tiny me running around. I don’t… I don’t want that. I’m quite happy with being here for my princess.”

“Sounds to me like you’re scared.”

The scoffing noise coming from Jaskier's mouth sounds like an undignified angry swann, and is quite ridiculous.

“Of course I’m scared that’s the whole point ! Did you not hear a word of what I just said ? I _am_ scared, but I have a duty to the child I helped raise and teach and I’m not going to run from my responsibilities. I’m not Geralt for fuck sake !”

Yennefer winces painfully at the name, and Jaskier calms down from his outburst.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re angry at him. Who wouldn't. But at least _you_ convinced him to go back for Cirilla, and that’s more than I can say.”

“What the fuck do you know about it ?”

There is pain in her words, but the usual coaxing of threats is not there.

“I… I heard you, on the mountain. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t get everything but it was too much not to get the gist.”

Oh gods, oh lords, it’s happening, Yennefer of Vengerberg is talking. Like, talking to him, opening up like they haven't spent the last decade at each other's throat any chance they got.

“I… got some time to think, after that shitshow. It was like waking up from a terrible hangover. I was so blinded by pride, I thought it was about a desire for children, but really it was about control. Agency. It took me too long to accept that they didn't actually take away the choice I thought I had. I was so angry I didn't want to listen to anyone."

"Do you want to talk about it ?"

"What else is there to say ? I thought I'd feel better if I channeled my anger towards Aretuza, if I made them responsible for my ego. But the truth is, I was always to be barren. Every one of us is. Magic fucks with us and our reproductive cycles, we are infertile by nature. And when somehow a rogue magic user manages to have a baby, they're usually too crippled to see their first birthday."

"That's still a choice."

"Do you really believe that ? Come on bard. With the tales you just told me, do you really think it wise to go through the risks of pregnancy and delivery for a child doomed to a few months of suffering ?"

"You are mages. I'd think if anyone has the power to stay safe in motherhood and take good care of a crippled child it would be you."

"Maybe.”

She shrugs and takes another sip of wine.

"It doesn't matter anyways. It was decided long before my time that mages would be sterilised to avoid the outlier case."

“But it does matter !"

Her eyebrow rises at his exclamation, something daring him to raise his voice at her again and see what would come next. Maybe he clears his throat a bit longer than necessary before going on.

"Look. I understand that you would not wish pain upon a babe. We have all seen parents do terrible, unspeakable things and try to call it "mercy". But there are also so many kids beating the odds, who are loved and cared for and find their own places among us.”

He should stop talking right now he knows, he sees the look on her face warning him that he should shut his mouth before it’s too late but damn he has always been so bad at that.

“I'm not saying anyone should force themselves to give birth to a child if they are too scared of the outcome. But this is a choice nonetheless, and a choice to be made by you, not anyone else. You have every right to be fucking angry at them !”

Her eyes reflect the light from the candles like a pair of burning amethysts and gods, how has he managed to forget how scary she could be ?

“Do you really think I need your permission to be angry, bard ? Do you think I am the kind to wait for a man to tell me how my own pain is real ?”

He would very much like to swallow his own saliva but it seems stuck somewhere in his suddenly dry throat and it is getting harder to breathe. 

“I have lived more lifetimes than you could think of, I have felt the burning pits of anger most of them, I took and took and hunted for what I thought I was owed, and I wrecked the world in my trail and where did that get me ? Back to the fucking start, under the eyes of fucking Tissaia, waiting for her word to yield chaos until it almost destroyed me. I am no firebird bard, if I catch fire from blowing on those embers again I won’t rise stronger than ever : I’ll die.”

Silence falls on them like an icy shroud, only disturbed by the sound of Yennefer's breathing in the aftermath of her outburst.

Jaskier, on his end, feels like shit. Fuck, had he really forgotten how unnerving he found the men who tried to explain his own feelings to him like he was some kind of pissy child ?

_Also, who the fuck is Tissaia ?_

“Phoenix…”

“What..?”

“Firebirds don’t get stronger by bursting into flames, that would be a phoenix.”

She blinks, visibly taken aback by the sheer nerves it took to dare and correct her on such insignificant trivia right after she was on the verge of turning him inside out.

And suddenly a laugh that can’t exactly be called joyless, that reminds him of the days at Calanthe's court (oh, oh, one day he should ask the sorceress if she’s ever met the queen because that would probably make a very, very good song).

“Have you got no sense of self-preservation at all ?”

“It’s funny you’re asking, I get that question quite a lot !”

The look she gives him stops him in his tracks for a second, probably proving he still has _some_ kind of survival instinct.

"Though I’ll admit, for a man, you do seem to have paid a lot of thoughts to the burdens of women."

Jaskier has to purposefully slow down the speed at which he sends one of his hands to grab his wine and drink it before the red becomes too visible in his cheeks but without looking suspicious. When he puts the cup down, he has a charming smile plastered upon his face and wiggles his brows tentatively.

"What can I say, I'm a gentleman ! And an artist ! No matter what some second hand troubadours may think, you can't write a heart wrecking ballad if you're only thinking with your cock !"

He hopes his fooling around is effective, and it looks like it as Yennefer breathes an exasperated sigh and punches him lightly in the shoulder. His grin widens and he goes on babbling nonsense.

But even if the sorceress's lips keep their expression of disdain, he thinks he can catch a glimpse of a smile in her eyes. Of course he knows better than to think it to be actual fondness. Probably just thankfulness for the change of subject, that quickly turns into friendly banter about magical birds and other flying creatures.

There will be a time for apologies. But for now, let’s forget and drink.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jaskier wakes up the next morning on a straw mattress on the floor, with a very sore chest and under the impression that some kind of critter has managed to slither into his brain with a gigantic metal bell and is taking much pleasure in hitting it with all its strength.

Also, it looks like he held Yennefer's hand through the night and yet he is still breathing (painful as it is).

Very carefully, he disentangles his fingers from hers, and replaces her hand on the cushioned bed she’s still sleeping in. The bard lifts himself on an elbow and looks at the sorceress’s face. Despite the exhausting road, she looks nothing like the walking corpse he met in Razwan, and it is a relief to see the colours back on her face, even if they don't compare to the perfect makeup she used to wear. Maybe he could burn her some spindle sticks for her eyes ?

He carefully gets on his feet to grab the pitcher and pour himself some water in his wine stained cup, then sits himself and takes another look at Yennefer, who is still sleeping the most peaceful sleep he’s ever seen her in.

You know what, maybe they could stay and rest another night. They probably deserve it.

They end up staying the extra day, with a lot less wine and a lot less talking, and they’re back at the stable harnessing the horses and securing their bags when Yennefer throws him a linen pouch filled with powder.

“Careful with that, they weren't too sure about the colour so you should test it first. You probably don't want to become a redhead now blondie.”

Feels like air has left Jaskier's lungs for a second.

“Mignonette..? But how ? When ?”

“Talked to the innkeepers’ daughter while you were taking your bath. You blabble about living on the road all the time, but you still don’t know plants change names in different countries ? For shame songbird, for shame.”

There it is again. That smile. Her smile.

“Yennefer, thank you so much, I could kiss you.”

“And _I_ could kill you, so please don’t.”

He throws his hands in the air but can’t help but smile too.

“I won’t. So. What’s the plan now, my lady ?”

She shoots him a look.

“We restock in Ard Carraigh, then we follow the Gwenllech upstream as far as we can.”

“What about the pass ?”

“We should be there before it gets snowed in, but snow isn’t the problem. From what Geralt told us the tracks to the castle have only been used by a handful of witchers over the last century, we might get lost in the mountains.”

“Please tell me you have a plan, I’m too young and beautiful to finish my days eaten by an izard.”

“Izard is just another name for chamois you moron, even you can’t be stupid enough to be afraid of being eaten by a goat.”

“Oooh I know a song about a goat and a pack of chamois ! But it’s a sad song. The goat gets eaten by a wolf at the end. Except sometimes the chamois save her and she isn’t. Songs are weird… Okay alright, shutting up right now.”

“Yes, I _do_ have a plan.”

She clicks her fingers, and a small purple flame appears in her hand. Well, so much for being too drained to read his thoughts huh ?

“Yennefer… You can do magic ?”

She rolls her eyes and okay, okay, bad question, bad timing, let’s just stop interrupting the mean and powerful witch who could and _would_ definitely act on all her previous threats at once.

“I think I will be able to cast a tracking spell. But I don’t know how long it will last, and it will definitely take a lot from me. So we need to be as close as we possibly can to the witchers road when I cast it. And I’m going to need you.”

She looks at him straight in the eyes. Well _that_ is new.

“I need you to be certain the witchers will get us in as quickly as possible. I am not afraid of chamois but I have no intention of freezing to death because _someone_ got us on the bad side of Geralt's only living family.”

Jaskier theatrically holds his right hand out and lays it upon his heart.

“I promise you I shall be on my best behaviour.”

Her smirk is clearly not trusting him but he finds out he doesn't care at all.

  
  


* * *

The witcher and the princess are not at the fortress when Jaskier and Yennefer eventually arrive, and that information is way, way higher up on Jaskier’s priorities list than the sword an old witcher with serious grandfather vibes is threatening him with.

“The fuck do you mean they’re not here, we’ve followed their tracks since bloody Hagge, how could they be ‘not here’ ?!”

His lungs are on fire, and he should not be screaming while he’s on foot and holding his horse’s reins, he knows it, but it’s pretty obvious Vesemir (the old witcher must be Vesemir right, there can’t be _that_ many grandfather witchers around ?) is taken aback by the unexpected scene Jaskier is throwing. And instead of helping or, I don’t know, panic with him because Geralt and Ciri are not there when they should be by all account, Yennefer is fucking _smirking_ at him in the most _told-you-so_ manner.

“You do not…”

Just as the bard is starting to yell again that they don’t have time for that kind of nonsense, two new voices emerge from behind the white haired man.

“Come on Vesemir, are you getting that old you can’t recognise threats ? That’s the bard that stuck to Geralt’s sole back in Posada, the one who wrote the song !”

“Quite the song. Unbearable, but it certainly did a number for my purse. And that must be Geralt's girlfriend.”

“Call me that once again and I’ll rip your tongue out and stick it in your arse.”

“Ah ! I like you already !”

Jaskier has heard about Geralt’s brothers in arms, but must admit none of the portraits he’d made in his head match the men who just joined Vesemir and started to look at the bard and sorceress like a pair of lynxes watching a crow and a robin. He swallows painfully and looks straight at the man with the big facial scar, who has no right to look so much like Geralt despite the short brown hair, still ignoring Vesemir’s sword pointed at his throat.

There’s a light shuffle on Yennefer’s horse. Nothing much, but it is a sign he’s come to know as her forces starting to leave her, and that she’s doing her stubborn best at not showing it. The tracking spell has definitely taken an even bigger toll than expected and he’s not going to let a grumpy old man keep her in the cold like that.

After all, he promised.

“Eskel, you must be Eskel right ? I swear I will write you as many songs as you’d like, I can make you even more famous than Geralt if you’d like, but would you please just get this one to listen to us ?”

Well _this one_ is looking even more pissed at him, but Eskel is suppressing a laugh so there's that.

“We know Geralt is heading this way, we know he’s with his child surprise, we know they’re in danger, and apparently they disappeared into fucking thin air since the last town they stopped at so if _someone_ here was kind enough to get their embellished toothpick out of my face, maybe, maybe you witchers could do that thing you’re supposed to be good at and help us find them !”

Small bard, big mouth, bigger metaphorical pair to speak like this to three armed men who could easily snap him in two without breaking a sweat, especially when one of them already seems to be onboard with the idea of bard brochette. Not the time, focus.

_You’re not that small._

Focus !

For a fleeting moment there is not a sound but his own breath slowly coming down from the rush. He could swear Yennefer is about to lose the silent facade when Vesemir finally sheaths his sword and Eskel and Lambert’s (the third one must be Lambert, right ? Or is that the pen-pal slash boyfriend from another school ?) laughs rumble around them all like a warm summer storm.

“Oh this is going to be so good.”

“Geralt and the kid are fine, bard. They made a detour to Hent Kezeg to grab new horses. You must know how he is about horses.”

“They should be back in a week or two, depending on the fillies.”

Something squeezes in Jaskier's chest. If Geralt is so adamant to make a detour just to get horses, it must mean he’s not travelling with the latest Roach he knew and that's just… Sad. He pulls himself together and throws his hands in the air dramatically while staring at the older man.

“Thank you ! See ?! It wasn’t that bloody difficult !”

The look on Vesemir’s face is uncannily similar to the one on Geralt’s when he’s reconsidering his life choices, but just like Geralt it seems the laughter of his friends sweetens the pot. Eskel gives a resonating slap in the old witcher’s back and laughs again. The third man steps forward to shake Jaskier’s hand.

“Welcome to Kaer Morhen. It’s not much, but it’s still home.”

Not much ? Not much ? Not much his arse, the keep is damn gigantic, not to mention the outside grounds, and this is coming from someone who was raised in a literal royal castle. Jaskier is certain he’s going to need a map to navigate the corridors that are still functional, and a quill to mark which of those scaffoldings he can actually trust. Hell, he’s almost certain one particular set of stairs is actually moving on its own accord, and he’d rather be damned than ask the witchers. Eskel and Lambert (yes, the third one actually _is_ Lambert and Jaskier is pretty sure he dodged death by a thread for mentioning his cat-witcher-penpal-boyfriend) would most certainly take the piss at him, while Vesemir would roll his eyes without even gratifying him with an answer.

To be fair, it’s not like he actually hates the witcher’s weird lovingly bullying brothers energy. Even Vesemir’s “I don’t trust strangers” grumpiness has something sweet to it. Somewhere deep, it might actually be one of the reasons Jaskier grew to appreciate all of them that quickly.

But now… Now there’s a scratching he cannot shake at the back of his head, caught between the anticipation of finally seeing Cirilla safe and sound, the storm of mixed emotions at the thought of meeting Geralt again for the first time since the bloody mountain disaster, and a lingering concern for Yennefer's health.

There’s nothing he can do to help with the first two, so he does what he usually does in those cases : try and shove them under the rug and focus on everything and anything else. Unluckily for her, the sorceress falls under the “everything”.

Hey, he’s tried other stuff too. But trying to make yourself useful in a keep where the residents have had very specific places and tasks for more years than he's been alive is a far more delicate job than it looks like. And with half his brain trying to fight back panic attacks, it’s not like he’s in full capacity to be his charming self and persuade Geralt's brothers he is actually quite capable with _some_ handiwork.

So, Yennefer it is.

For all her show of fangs at the mention of her entanglement with Geralt, she still took his room as her own, while Jaskier settled across the corridor. 

The spell has depleted her forces, just as she had warned. There is something painful in watching her trying to act natural and crumbling when she thinks the witchers aren’t watching. Something even more heart clenching when he sometimes catches her trying to hide some from him too.

Jaskier is not that big of a fool. He knows Yennefer, and that the weeks (the month ? Months ? When did he stop counting ?) spent with her may have drawn them closer than he’d ever thought, but would not be enough for her to drop her pride and her walls at once.

It’s okay. He’ll manage.

Worst part about being hopelessly in love with someone unreachable for an unfathomable amount of time ?

It makes it all the more easier to fall for someone even more out of reach.

Fuck.

No.

Nope.

He’s not playing that song again.

He’s not.

Certainly not when he’s about to spend gods know how long stuck inside with both the subjects of his foolish heart.

Nope, not again, thank you very much.

And yet…

Jaskier keeps as close to the enchantress as she’ll allow him, and for now it looks like she’s allowing quite a lot. Sure, she will threaten him with maiming a bit here and there when he can’t keep as quiet as she’d like during their visits to the castle’s library, but she’s still offering him to tag along soooo…

“Here, look ! I told you firebirds didn’t rise from their ashes !”

Maybe he gets whacked on the head with an ancient tome or parchment sometimes. Still worth it if he can catch a glimpse of her smile somewhere in the eyerolls.

The nights are something else.

The nightmares come back to them the third night after their arrival. Jaskier wakes up drenched in sweat, images of fire and pillage still dancing before his eyes, to the sound of a blood-curdling scream that wasn’t part of his dream.

 _Yennefer_.

He puts some clothes on as quickly as possible and rushes to the enchantress's door. Eskel is already in the corridor, sword in hand, and wearing the most ridiculous nightcap Jaskier has ever seen in his whole life. The bard needs a second to not snort at the sight and make a hand gesture towards the witcher, trying to convey that he can go back to sleep and that Jaskier can handle it on his own. The witcher turns heels with a very sleepy grumble and Jaskier enters the room carefully.

The nights are something else. It’s not like he can play his lute and keep the whole castle awake now, so...

He has a hand on her forehead, rubbing it with his thumb.

Or.

He catches her hands with his to keep her from clawing at her skin.

Or.

He presses a wet cloth to the back of her neck.

Or.

He whispers sweet nothings to make her feel less alone.

The nights are something else, and he usually wakes up all painfully twisted from falling asleep on the chair next to her bed.

One morning Jaskier wakes before Yenn and tries to get his hand back to return to his rightful bed and get at least another hour of (hopefully this time decent) sleep, but she doesn’t let go and turns around, bringing him fully in the bed behind her.

(She’s not completely asleep, he knows it, she would turn his body inside out if he dared to do that without her blessing).

Jaskier never starts the night in Yennefer's bed, but he often ends them there.

They don’t talk about it, but he could swear there’s less and less bite in their banter since it started.

Nah, probably just an impression.

  
  


He’s pacing in the front courtyard one morning, trying his best to focus on his lute rather than the stronger than ever yearning to steal a fucking horse and find Geralt and Cirilla himself when the faint sound of hooves on gravel resonates his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading my work ! Next chapter should take a bit longer to post, and at the moment the plan is to have 5 chapters and maybe an epilogue, but I'm not entirely sure about my pacing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is... A lot, and I wouldn't blame anyone for stopping reading after that warning. But let me reassure you the best I can that comfort will follow.
> 
> /!\ *Content warning, this chapter includes a lot of anxiety about periods, a discussion about gender reassignment surgery, the fantasy equivalent of anabolic steroids, a panic/dysphoric episode, and a trans man character's chest getting exposed against his will in a first aid attempt.* /!\

There is no time to run for Yennefer as the faint sound of human footsteps and voices fades in.

"Jaskier..?"

"Jaskier !"

"CIRILLA !!!"

Before he can process his own words and body, Jaskier is already on his knees, on the other side of the courtyard, and holds the pre-teen in his arms for dear life. Tears are already rolling down his face, but he can't stop smiling and letting out little bursts of laughter, his hands coming up and down Ciri's back as if to reassure himself that she is actually there.

"Is that really you ? Why are you here, what's going on, I thought we were coming to stay with other witchers ?"

The bard lets out another strangled laugh and manages to disentangle himself a bit. He steadies his hands on Ciri's shoulders, and rests his forehead against hers.

"Oh my sweet sweet princess, it’s me, it’s really me, and I am so sorry I couldn't be with you, you have no idea how scared I have been for you."

He lifts his face, presses a kiss to her forehead and looks straight in her emerald eyes.

"There is so much to tell and I am so sorry that I couldn't prepare you for it, but your grandmother would have had my head ! Oh I am so sorry little cub... You must miss her so much..."

He tries to give her a comforting smile, and goes back into a deep hug when he sees her eyes watering. Her fingers dig into his shoulders, and he can hear and feel her small hiccups of someone who is fighting the urge to cry their heart out.

“She’s… Everyone is… I thought Mousesack had gotten out but… They got him too… Everyone, everyone…”

He raises a hand to her head and caresses her hair in what he hopes to be a soothing move.

"Shhh, it's okay cub, you can cry, you can cry, you're safe here, we're all safe here..."

And with that, her hiccups and muffled sniffles suddenly burst into a torrent of tears and painful wails. The sound of tears that must have been fought down for so long echoes along the stone walls. Jaskier holds her tight in his arms, anchoring her and him both into the embrace. She is safe, she is safe and now it is time to heal.

He is so focused on Cirilla that he barely notices Geralt, who is uncomfortably shifting his weight from a leg onto the other with a puzzled look upon his face.

"What the fuck...?"

There is nothing in the world that could make Jaskier move at the moment, but he'll have to admit he's somewhat disappointed he can't see the witcher's face when Yennefer's voice and steps resonate on the pavement.

"You heard the bard. There is a lot to tell.”

It takes a while for Jaskier to disentangle himself from Ciri, and even then his hands keep searching for her at his side when they move to a sitting room where everyone can finally share their part of the story and listen to the others. 

To Jaskier's surprise, Vesemir and the other wolves do not invite themselves in the conversation, and he wonders if it’s out of respect for their privacy, because they can already hear everything through the door, or both.

The bard’s eyes stay focused on the kid, nested in her grandmother's cloak on an enormous chair by the fireplace. He wonders how the sorceress feels to see the witcher again and to meet the girl at last. She might deny it, but there is no doubt in his mind that without her words on that mountain Geralt wouldn't have felt enough shame to finally face his destiny.

He tries to keep his focus on Cirilla, because if he doesn't he knows his brain will start running and never stop about how perfect the three people in front of him look together. The girl may be her mother's perfect portrait, but without knowing Pavetta there is no way to tell she isn’t Geralt's own flesh and blood. On her other side, Yennefer is trying to keep her cold facade, but Jaskier knows too much to fall for it now. He sees the soft glint in her eyes and the corner of her lips, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before she allows herself to melt and open up to Ciri.

_The perfect patchwork family, and where does that leave you ?_

Jaskier blinks and shakes his head to chase the thoughts away.

He knows his place. He knows his girl. Cirilla may be Geralt's daughter by law of surprise, but laws can kiss his arse. Laws don’t make families, no more than blood, and Geralt had run away.

_But now he’s back isn’t he ?_

He shakes his head again. It is late and they’re all exhausted, there is no reason to give in to the voices of doubt and self deprecation in his brain. Is there ?

The candles are almost all melted when they get up to the sleeping quarters. Ciri’s room is next to Jaskier’s, all ready and warm since the second day he had spent in the keep. He’s the one who gets her settled, tries to brush her hair (it’s honestly disgusting and she _will_ need a bath and so much oil to get all the knots out), tucks her in her bed and pets her forehead until she finally gives in to sleep.

She’s so grown now, and yet so young. This is not fair. None of this is fair.

When Jaskier closes her door to leave, Geralt is waiting in the corridor and the bard can’t keep a smirk from his face. It appears a certain sorceress is not willing to give back her room, and even less to share it with a certain witcher.

Jaskier is about to say something about sleeping arrangements but Geralt speaks first.

“You came back. You took care of my child when I had turned my back on her. That is a debt I cannot ever repay.”

“Then don’t. Try to repay me, as is. Make up for the time you lost with her. Keep her happy and safe, prepare her for the bad days and teach her about the good ones. I’ll stay out of your hair.”

As he’s turning his heels, a calloused hand grabs his sleeve.

“Please. Stay. I’m… I’m sorry for what I said that day.”

Geralt’s eyes are shifty, avoiding his.

“I know.”

_But did you miss me ?_

Something crumbles inside of Jaskier's chest and something warms up at the apology and something hates him for how easily he still gets flustered by the barest minimum from the witcher. That is… A lot of things. Especially at this hour of the night. He looks straight in the witcher’s golden eyes.

“You are not getting rid of me that easily this time Geralt. I am not leaving my princess again. Or you. Now get in, she shouldn't be alone.”

Geralt opens his mouth hesitantly, but shuts it without speaking. Instead he lets out a low humming noise and pats Jaskier on the shoulder before listening to his advice and getting into Ciri’s room.

The bard stands on the spot for a second and raises a hand to grab the shoulder Geralt touched, before getting back to his room.

Neither Yennefer nor Cirilla wake him up that night.

The first morning goes… Weirdly. To say the least. Turns out three adults with a rather Charged history among them make for poor breakfast discussions. Yet a discussion is needed, and on a more pressing matter than who broke whose heart.

Lambert seems quite happy to nope out of it by inviting Cirilla for a grand tour of the keep, while the three of them stay behind, soon enough joined by Vesemir and Eskel. Apparently those two are somehow under the impression they could help Geralt stand his ground in front of Yennefer of Vengerberg. Fools.

“She’s a child. She just lost everything dear to her, she’s just trekked across half a continent, she’s struggling with powers beyond any of our understanding, and to top it all she has to deal with that with a bunch of strangers and a confidant who she just learnt has been hiding stuff from her for years.”

Yennefer pauses her monologue to take a deep breath, unfaltered by Jaskier’s uneasiness at the mention of his lies, and concludes.

“We are not to train her in any way before she is rested.”

Geralt gives the bard a perplexed look.

“You told me to train her, Jaskier, what is this about ?”

“By the gods Geralt, just because I agree she needs to know how to defend herself doesn't mean you have to start right this second !”

The bard’s protest is met by awkwardness on the three witchers’ side.

“You haven’t told us what you intend on teaching the girl, Yennefer.”

“That’s because I don’t answer to you.”

Jaskier almost pities Eskel, and is honestly quite surprised to hear the sorceress elaborate with a soother voice.

“But also because I don’t know yet. I couldn’t really assess the girl when we were busy catching up yesterday, could I ? If I am to believe what your brother and the bard told me, she has magic in her blood unlike anything I have seen. I will need to study it very carefully with her, and with the full extent of her trust and abilities, which she definitely won’t share if she isn’t given time to stop fearing for her life all of the damn time.”

“If she’s to be trained as a witcher she should know to fear for her life.”

“Who said anything about her being a witcher ?”

The bard doesn’t even realise that he cut off Vesemir, who looks at him with contempt.

“It’s the tradition, witchers’ child surprises are brought here to be trained as witchers too.”

“But she’s a..!”

_She’s a girl ? Seriously ? Is that what you’ve come to ?_

Jaskier clears his throat with a twinge of shame and tries to take a deep calming breath, but a look around the room fills him with an unshakable doubt. Before he can put his finger on it, Yennefer is the first to ask.

“Geralt, have you spoken with Ciri about her getting trained as a witcher ?”

Geralt’s dodgy eyes are the loudest admission of guilt Jaskier has ever seen in his life. The bard gets to his feet.

“Ooh no no no no no. Fuck this. Fuck rest. Fuck tradition, fuck blood, fuck witchcraft and fuck witcherness. None of you…”

He points at every single person in the room like he’s in the mood for stabbing them with his finger.

“None of you, none of _us_ are to train Cirilla to be or do _anything_ until you talk to her about what she actually _wants_. What the fuck is wrong with you all ?”

He half expects Yennefer to hit him or something for including her in his outburst, certainly not the hand she lays on his wrist to calm him down.

“The bard is right, we need to let the girl rest _and_ ask her about what she wants before we plan anything for her.”

Between her hand and hearing her say out loud that she agrees with him, it is weird enough for Jaskier to deflate and sit back down.

“She’s a child, how could she possibly know what is best for her ?”

Surprisingly, this time the bard and the sorceress are not the only ones to shoot the old witcher a look.

“So she has enough brain and resources to escape Nilfgaard and a doppler in the middle of a war, but she can’t be trusted to know what she wants to do with her life ? Come on Vesemir, you know what Lambert would say. You know what happened with…”

Jaskier is seriously considering the idea of switching witchers to follow Eskel after this is all over, when Geralt cuts his brother out, his brows furrowed.

“If she’s old enough to fight, she’s old enough to choose.”

To his honour, Vesemir seems to know when a fight is lost, even if he looks even grumpier than usual while Geralt goes on.

“I _did_ tell Ciri we would train her here, but I didn’t ask if that’s what she wants. That was a mistake, you two are right.”

Does Jaskier feel the slightest pinch in his gut at that last part ? Yes. Does he show it ? Hells no. Instead a smug smile blooms on his face as he puffs his chest like a cocky pheasant. Not showing anything at all, no reason for Yennefer to roll her eyes, is there ?

“So it’s settled.”

The bard is brought back to earth by her voice, which sounds somewhere between a purr and an unsheathed dagger.

“We let Cirilla rest as much as she needs, and no training whatsoever is to take place before we’ve asked her what she wants.”

“We should make sure she knows we won’t pressure her. That she will be safe here, with us, no matter what she chooses.”

Geralt's voice is low, and it doesn’t look like he expected his words to be heard. The sorceress and the bard don’t need to look at each other to answer in perfect unison.

“We will.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The screams still wake him up with cold sweat, but there is less rush in his movements to get dressed. This is now his new normal, and being out of breath when he gets to Yenn’s side won’t calm her down quicker. There is no need to run.

 _Or maybe there is_.

Just like the first night, there is a startled witcher in the corridor, all messy from sleep and a sword in his hand. But this time it is not Eskel’s disgruntled face that welcomes Jaskier, but Geralt's eyes, pupils blown wide by fear. By care.

There was always something vulnerable about him when it came to the sorceress, and it was only a question of time before it started showing up again.

Jaskier shakes his head, just like the first night. There is no use trying to fight the forces of nature and fate. So instead of trying to shoo the witcher away, he opens his hand and waves silently for Geralt to sheathe his sword and follow Jaskier into the room.

Yennefer is thrashing and screaming, familiar names the bard still doesn't know anything about, and it is not the time to find himself irritated that Geralt seems to react to at least one, but he still is. Jaskier silences a voice inside his chest that wants to cry, and points the chair near the bed, the bucket of fresh water and the clean washcloth resting on its edge. The witcher’s hesitation is even sweeter, and more infuriating, but the bard manages to give him an encouraging smile, and he sits down so carefully by Yennefer's side that said smile cannot be anything but sincere.

The bard leaves the room when the cries start getting weaker, and lays his forehead on the cold stones of the wall. Something is not right. His eyes are teary and his back is hurting and his lungs are on fire, he can’t breathe and he wants to cry, to sleep, to scream, to do something and yet to disappear, everything feels weird and out of place and his guts are killing him and…

That’s when he notices the weird wetness between his legs.

_Fucking bloody hell._

Of course he’s bleeding, what did he expect ?

Missing a period while eating shit and being painfully overstressed on a cross-continental journey was not too much of a surprise, especially at his age, but the blood that follows a missed beat always feels bitter, more painful.

_Thought you’d be rid of it uh ?_

Fuck.

Well that would explain that. Now all he has to do is keep his temper down and find a way to clean a fuckton of blood soaked rags without getting spotted not by one, but four witchers gifted with superhuman senses. Plus a sorceress who is very much not blinded anymore.

The gods must really hate him.

He rubs his sweat covered brow, not sure if it is really helpful, when he notices the door to Cirilla’s room is still open and a candle is lit inside.

_Geralt doesn't need a candle._

He carefully knocks on the door and waits for her to invite him in. The room is still in the state he set it up, with the exception of the few clothes scattered here and there. Geralt must share the bed with the girl, convenient to protect her at the first sign of trouble, but apparently not so much when he’s awoken for other reasons.

Ciri is sitting in the bed and looks so small. It will take more than a few days to put back the weight she lost. She is no skeleton, thank goodness, but the road has taken its toll on her, and not just mentally.

“What’s going on ? Where did Geralt go ?”

Jaskier shakes his head, goes to sit on the edge of the bed but remembers about the blood and stays upright, resting a shoulder on the wall.

“Yennefer has nightmares, that’s what you heard. Geralt is by her side.”

For a second, he considers asking her for help, before slapping himself in the face mentally. What is he thinking ? It’s not the job of a twelve years old to help him cover for his own cowardice. 

Something must be showing on his face, because Cirilla’s worry seems to have switched to him.

“Are you okay ? You really don’t look good.”

He sighs, and can’t help but smile through his exhaustion.

“I have not told anyone here about my body, and I would really like to keep it that way for now.”

Cirilla opens her mouth with an outraged look upon her face and he realises his mistake.

“ _Not_ that I would ever think you’d tell on me my dear, that’s not it. But I am finding myself in a most unfortunate monthly position…”

“You still get your period ?”

Ah, yes, the bluntness of kids, always much appreciated.

“And I might still get them for quite a while, I’m not _that_ old you know…”

There is confusion in Ciri’s eyes, but if she has further questions it looks like she won’t ask them at the moment.

“As I said, I don’t want our witchers friends or Yennefer to find out.”

He could just… Be honest. Tell his truth and dare anyone in the fortress to say something. What’s the worst that could happen ?

…

Yeah no, with all due respect to Maja’s wisdom, he really doesn't want to think about all the ways things could literally go tits up now.

“So what are you going to do ?”

“I was planning on staying apart for a while. We had a rather unpleasant discussion the other day, and I may have lost my temper a bit, so I think everyone here will simply think Geralt has rubbed off on me and I am still brooding on my own. That should give me enough space that no-one can smell me reek of blood, and enough time that I can figure out when is the best time to clean my stuff privately.”

Cirilla stays quiet for a bit, a far too serious look on her face. She slowly raises her knees under the covers and holds them in her arms.

“Why did you lose your temper ? Was it because of me ?”

“What would make you think that my dear ?”

“I’m not stupid. I saw you were all fidgety but didn’t want to talk because I was there. And Lambert told me you were talking about me and he didn’t want to get mixed in it.”

Jaskier slides to the floor, his arms crossed and resting on the bed near Ciri.

“I never thought for a second you were stupid, I just, foolishly, hoped we were better at hiding our tensions from you. I didn’t lose my temper because of you, but you see, the witchers, Yennefer, and I, we all have our own ways of caring, and sometimes they clash.”

“Quit the bullshit and stop babying me ! You got angry because Geralt wants to train me as a witcher !”

The bard holds his jaw very, very tight on a joke about bad language, for he sees her eyes get wet with the kind of frustration that is so much worse when woken up. He tries to make his voice as soft as he possibly can.

“I am not babying you. In fact Yennefer and I did the opposite. We think you are the person most capable of making the choices regarding your future. Geralt, he wants to do what’s best, but he had no choice in becoming a witcher, and for a second he forgot you had one, that’s why I got angry. Vesemir…”

He bites his tongue. No need to throw the old witcher under the carriage if Cirilla were to actually stay and learn from him.

“Vesemir is from another time, but Geralt and him agreed with us in the end, that it is better to wait.”

“So you all agreed I had to stay defenseless until you say so, great, I feel so safe.”

 _Ouch_.

“We agreed you need to rest. And to take your time before making decisions that may not be reversible. If you want to learn how to fight, the wolves will be more than happy to train you. If you don’t, they will still be here for you, just as I will.”

“But I don't have a choice about magic.”

“Cirilla…”

“You know it’s true ! You brought Yennefer here but you didn’t know if I wanted to do magic ! You’re doing the same as Geralt but at least he’s not trying to be sneaky about it ! You’re just like Grandma…”

Gods it hurts, it hurts so much.

Jaskier sighs and throws his head back, right into the wall. It’s a bit painful, but not as much as his princess’s words. He closes his eyes.

“You are right to be angry, and I’m sorry for what I have kept hidden from you all this time. But from what you told us happened before you met Geralt, you know you’re going to need help with your gifts. Yennefer is here to help you control them, but she is not going to enroll you in a mage school without your consent.”

Ragged breaths catch his ear, and he opens his eyes to see the girl gritting her teeth, eyes still red and puffy.

“I need to be alone.”

Jaskier rises to his feet, silently cursing at the still very present feeling of icky wetness between his legs, while Cirilla sets her legs back down under the covers and turns her back to him.

“Of course princess.”

As he gets to the door and reaches for the handle, he turns his head one last time.

“Before I go, I just want to tell you you can still always come and see me, no matter what. Okay ?”

Cirilla doesn't answer, resolutely facing the other way, but there’s a small twitch in her shoulders at that invitation.

“Sweet dreams, my cub.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


There have been some weeks in Jaskier’s life that felt way longer than the average seven days each, and yet it feels like none of them holds a candle to the excruciating rhythm of this one. 

It is not an easy task to force himself away from Cirilla’s side, especially after all that time spent obsessing about her whereabouts. He knows that he needs to, both for his sake and hers. But when you just spent the past weeks, nay, month stressing out about your place in this patchwork of a family, it is that much more complicated to be banned to the outskirts of the action, a mere spectator for the lost souls coming together at last.

Yennefer is, as he’d predicted, slowly warming up to the child, and the wolves may bark a lot, but they are exceptionally kind and soft with Cirilla, each in their own way. Of course it was foolish of Jaskier to hope no talk of witchering would occur before she was ready. This, all of this, is their entire lives, no matter how relaxed they allow themselves to be when the snows close the pass and they are safe among family.

Geralt would talk about horse care and slip about keeping them safe in combat. Eskel would show her the goats enclosure and joke about how a scar left by one of them is so embarrassing he always pretends it’s from a monster hunt. From the few lines here and there Jaskier manages to catch in the air from his different hiding places, only Lambert has managed to stay away from the subject so far, and Vesemir is not even trying. Well, he’s not bullying the kid with traditions talk so there is at least that, and as far as Jaskier can tell he seems to be nice to her.

Maybe that's the worst part of this week. Not knowing. Relying on snippets of conversations overheard in corridors or open spaces, not allowing himself to get involved by fear of getting caught. There is a certain irony, he thinks, in how he’s tried so hard to be seen by the others, only to fade away at the first drop of blood.

To Jaskier's surprise, Geralt is the first to come to him. He’s sitting on an old tree trunk outside, fiddling with his lute, trying his best to write a line despite the biting cold and the discomfort in his back when he notices the sound of footsteps coming his way. They’re too heavy to be from either Cirilla or Yennefer, and even more so from the other witchers who are infuriatingly silent as cats, which, really unpleasant when he’s trying to avoid them at all costs. There’s only Geralt to announce his presence like this to avoid startling him.

“Jaskier ?”

The bard doesn't bother to turn around and keeps plucking at strings thoughtlessly, mumbling lyrics under his breath.

“Jaskier, are you okay ?”

“How nice and unlike you to ask Geralt ! What gives, so suddenly ?”

“The others were asking about you.”

“And you did come to check on me ? My word, you really are a transformed man ! If you keep acting like that I’ll be out of a job for sure !”

There may be snark in his words, but his smile and playfulness are sincere.

“I told them you need a few days to yourself sometimes and there’s nothing to worry about. Ciri confirmed.”

“And ?”

“And Yennefer said you were moping like a little bitch.”

Jaskier lets out a very overly dramatic gasp.

“I do hope her shoulder knows what mine felt all these times I dared say anything mean about her near you !”

“If that’s any consolation, Lambert scolded her on her language in front of Ciri before I could do anything.”

The laugh that comes from Jaskier's mouth sounds a lot more like a cackle than he’d like.

“Oh dear, poor Lambert clearly has no idea who our girl is, has he ?”

Geralt is smiling, a true smile that lights up his eyes and bares his canines, and the bard has missed that smile so much it feels like a burning stone inside of his chest.

“Clearly.”

The witcher comes to sit on the trunk by his side, and they stay like this for a bit, without a sound, the stillness around them only disturbed by the condensation of their breaths.

There is a part of Jaskier that wonders, sometimes, if his… If the witcher knows about him. If he’s just been really polite and discreet for decades, or really that oblivious to all the signs throughout the years, and deaf to the rumours around him to top it all.

“Why did you come, Geralt ? You know I need my space sometimes, it’s nothing to be worried about.”

“I just… Wanted to check on you. And I think Ciri misses you. She seems to like you a lot.”

The burning stone inside his chest drops to his stomach. It takes him a while to answer.

“I am really glad to hear that. She heard I was not the most enthusiastic at the idea of her starting training right off the bat, and she got quite upset with me. Not that I can blame her. I was afraid she would not want to see me for a while.”

“Hmmm…”

Another silence. Jaskier is about to crack a joke about Geralt having talked too much for the day when the witcher speaks again.

“Is that why you took those times apart ? Because you thought I’d rather not see you ?”

A sad smile twists the corners of the bard’s mouth and he looks up at the clouds above them.

“Wasn’t that the case ?”

He can’t look at Geralt's face. He doesn't want to. Because either it is true and he is not in the mood for the clusterfuck of feelings it would raise in him, or it is not and he is _definitely_ not in the mood to explain a broody century old man why his actions have consequences on those around him. Not today. Besides, he’s pretty sure Yennefer is giving him plenty of reasons to re-think about his past actions lately.

The witcher doesn't answer. Jaskier didn’t expect him to. With a sigh, he gets to his feet and pats Geralt’s shoulder, but as he turns around and the witcher is in his back, he hears a low rumble.

“It wasn’t. And it’s not.”

The surprise hits him like a dagger in the form of an icy breath too quickly taken, and he has no idea which pain is the sharpest between the one in his throat or in his chest.

“I’m going back inside, see you later.”

Jaskier dares not look back at Geralt before he resumes his walk.

A transformed man, indeed.

As he passes the corridor to head back to his room, Cirilla’s open door and women’s voices catch his attention and stop him in his tracks.

“I was not shown kindness when I was first taught. One could argue it made me stronger, but it turns out it only made me bitterer, angrier. Only powerful in the same way as a powder keg. If I am to believe what the mages knew about your great-grandmother, you Cirilla, have a power I can never dream of achieving. But I believe it will forever be even more tied to your emotions than any other. It would not be in anyone’s interest to burn yourself out, and nor would it be to stupidly teach you to repress your feelings.”

The bard has to admit, regardless of her own state, he would have taken the witch to be a ruthless teacher with little regard for a pupil’s limits. No, that’s not true. Not anymore. Maybe he thought so the first time he’d talked to her in Razwan, but he knows better now.

Jaskier tiptoes closer to the door and peeks inside. Cirilla is sitting in a chair, her knees to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, while Yennefer is patiently brushing her hair and braiding it into an elaborate updo. The young girl’s eyes are red and puffy, but she seems more relaxed than he’s seen her since her arrival, and the sorceress is looking at her with a look of warmth and tenderness devoid of any pretending.

A memory from his childhood surfaces from the depths and shakes him to the core. His hands struggling on the comb, the pained hisses from Esperanza, and Julian’s both mocking and comforting hand on his shoulder…

Tears well up in his eyes as he jerks from the door and hastes his pace to get back to his room.

Before he knows it, it is morning again and he’s finally stopped bleeding.

“Would you look at who finally decided to grace us with his presence. Hello songbird, are you done moping already ?”

The morning table is set in the dining room, with a frugal yet tasty assortment of food laid on it. Vesemir is nowhere to be seen, while the other wolves are finishing their breakfast, Ciri tucked between Geralt and Lambert, and Yennefer was, until his arrival, reading a book the title of which Jaskier can’t decipher.

“I am afraid I am, Yennefer. Why, did you miss my lovely voice already ? Bored with our hosts’ rather, limited discussions ?”

“We are right here you know. “

Neither Eskel’s grumble or Yennefer’s rolled eyes are of any importance, because Cirilla just let out the slightest laugh into her mug of milk and that is the most beautiful sound Jaskier has heard all week.

“In retrospect, I will admit that looking for the inspiration of the great outdoors in the middle of winter may not have been my greatest strike of genius, but it was worth a try. So rejoice Kaer Morhen, your walls shall soon again hear the works of the greatest bard that ever lived !”

With a flourish of sleeves, he steals a slice of buttered bread right from Geralt's hand and goes to flop on a gigantic fur-covered armchair near the lit fireplace with his lute.

“Oh fuck no, it’s too early for this.”

Chairs being dragged on the floor echo in the room as Lambert and Eskel leave, and the bard starts plucking at the strings in a completely deliberate disharmony, before transitioning to the preludes of his latest song when their steps are finally far enough. After a few minutes of calm, the sound of a massive volume being snapped shut startles him.

“Geralt, a word.”

Yennefer is standing now, and Jaskier knows too well the look on her face that signals to anyone with half a working brain cell they should obey without question. Geralt, on his hand, seems beyond confused.

“...yes ? What is it ?”

The sigh she lets out reminds him of his days of teaching, both at Oxenfurt and in Cintra, trying to convey something apparently simple to a kid deadset on not using the head their parents gave them. Honestly the view is most entertaining, almost as much as the worried look on the witcher’s face.

“In _private_ , Geralt.”

Something seems to click in Geralt's eyes, and he follows her after a prudent caress on Cirilla’s head and cheek, careful not to mess with the work put into her hair by Yenn the night before.

It takes Jaskier a second to realise he’s now alone with the young girl, and it is no easy task to breathe as if there is nothing out of the ordinary. To be fair, Cirilla seems equally uncomfortable. There is a fleeting moment in which he doesn't dare play the lute and instead writes down a few line ideas in his notebook, before the girl bursts out.

“I’m sorry for the other night.”

His hands freeze on his pencil and he looks up to see her better.

“That's quite alright my dear. As I told you, you have every right to be angry at me.”

He smiles tentatively but it is clear she is not done, he face speckled with red.

“I’m scared Geralt thinks I’m ungrateful.”

“Why, did he do something ? Do you need me to annoy him to death ?”

The girl gives him a coy smile in return, but she’s still fidgety. The bard pats on a small bench beside him as an invite.

“Come and sit down my dear, you can tell me anything.”

She gets up, but to his greatest surprise instead of sitting on the bench she shoves him up a bit and squeezes herself in Jaskier's space, in a truly cat-y way. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, gives a small kiss on the top of her head and inhales the scents from her hair. She smells like late night fire, goat milk and almond oil, Jaskier makes a mental note of teasing Yennefer for stealing _his_ beauty stuff and waits for Cirilla to be ready. It takes a few more seconds gathering her thoughts before she speaks.

“Everyone is so nice here. Everyone is doing their best for me. And I… I don’t know what to do.”

“No one is asking you to choose anything right now my dear. You have all the time you need.”

“I know, but… You were right. That I shouldn’t rush. But I don’t know what else I can do.”

Her hands are playing with a loose thread hanging from her tunic. The garment looks so old it would be no surprise if it was revealed to be one of the witchers’ when they were still kids, but still in pretty good shape.

“In Cintra and Skellige, I knew what I was supposed to do. I knew my purpose. Even if I wasn't always certain, even after you told me I had a choice… It wasn’t real, you know ? I was still on the same path as my mother, my grandmother, everyone before me. And you know I fought about that, but it was still… It was comforting, in some way ?”

He hums. Maybe Geralt is rubbing off on him after all.

“I think I get it. You know, before Julian died, I still thought we were going to come back home together. I would find another compromise with mother and father, maybe plot behind their backs to find a husband below my rank but stupid or old enough to let me live my own life. I only ran when I realised I’d have to play along with a whole new part if I wanted to live. We know it's scary, and no one is asking you to forget about Cintra overnight, my cub.”

“I… I don't want them to die, again.”

Jaskier dares not make a sound.

“I feel like I’m the one killing them when I’m here, hidden away and just… Getting closer to everyone here.”

“The battles have stopped after Sodden, and you are not responsible for Nilfgaard’s expansionist frenzy.”

“I’m not talking about _that_. I’m talking about my family.”

_Oh…_

“They're gone, all of them, everyone I’ve ever known. And I’m here getting cosy with all of you like it doesn't matter, like _they_ didn't matter and I can just… Replace them.”

She starts scratching at her skin mindlessly and Jaskier places his hand upon hers in an attempt to keep her from hurting herself.

“You will never replace them my love. Just like your grandparents never replaced your parents. Geralt, Yennefer, the other witchers, they care so much for you I can tell, just as much as I care for you, and they may become a new family if you want them to. But they’re not the family you lost, and they can't replace them.”

“Geralt is still my father surprise…”

“So what ? Was it him or Duny singing you to sleep when you were little ? Was it him or Eist teaching you how to cheat at Gwent ? Was it him who showed you how to break the wrist of anyone who touches you inappropriately or was it Calanthe ? Destiny might bind you together but it takes more than blood or the law of surprise to make an actual family. You do not owe him to become a witcher if you don’t want to, just like you don’t owe Cintra to come back and single-handedly push Nilfgaard back.”

She shakes his hand off of hers, but the scratching has stopped.

“I think I want to learn from Geralt and the others. Fighting, monsters, magic… But I don’t want to change my body like them, not now at least. And I don’t know how to tell them.”

“You tell them just like you told me my dear. You don’t need to wrap it in pretty court talk nonsense, they will understand. And I’ll be with you if you need me.”

She nods against his cheek, a few tears rubbing against his skin, and he holds her tighter for a while, eyes half closed and fixed on the fire.

“I thought you had changed your body through magic, like Yennefer, that’s why I was surprised you still had your periods. Do you… Is everything still the same ?”

Jaskier suppresses a shiver. Usually, the question would get him a mixture of annoyed, angry and sad, and it is still uncomfortable to hear. But he gets it, how she would make the connection.

“I only dress in such a way no-one would guess. It’s a bit of work, but my body is still the same.”

“But why didn't you change it, if you don’t like it the way it is ?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I couldn't find the time ?"

"No."

A sigh. That kid is too smart for him, especially when he’s laid bare without his humor to hide behind, and he knows she’s fully aware of it and keen on using it against him. After all, he taught her well.

“I have lived more than half my life this way, lived in this body and learnt how to deal with it for all of it. It’s not that easy to let it all go.”

“But you do want to change it ?”

He closes his eyes and tries to ease his breath.

“Yes. But it’s… There used to be spells and potions, before the Conjunction, elves do not have the same conceptions about sex as most of humans do, but they have been erased from written memory during pogroms. Now elves are too suspicious to share their skills, and not every mage can be trusted in making their own version.”

“You trust Yenn now.”

 _Little shit_ , he thinks, but feels his heart grow even bigger with pride and love.

“I do. And yet it’s more complex than that. We have, how should I put it, a history of _bad blood_ , if you’ll excuse the pun.”

If the groan and the elbow he very painfully receives between his ribs are any indication, she does _not_ excuse him.

“Joke aside. We may have put our childish animosities behind us, it is true. But it’s also another whole layer of scary to it. I may trust her to do a very good job at complex surgery magic, but it’s something else entirely to bare myself, physically and emotionally, with her. Especially after so much fight and concealing.”

“But you didn’t seem so fearful in grandmother’s court.”

He smiles fondly.

“Your grandmother, may she rest in peace, might have had her share of flaws, but as long as I kept my mouth shut about your parent’s wedding she did not care for my personal life, and the rest of the castle knew I was in her favour, thanks to you. In the end, nobody who actually mattered really minded.”

“And you think Yennefer would.”

“I don’t know that. But I'm not ready to test it.”

He hesitates for a moment, unsure of what the sorceress has already told Cirilla. It’s not really his place to mention the extent to which Yennefer was willing to go to regain her womb, and how telling her of his plans to alter his body the opposite way would seem most unkind. Luckily for him, Cirilla doesn't seem to catch up on his hesitation.

“And what about Geralt ?”

Unluckily for him, she seems quite caught up on another facet of his bullshit. Before he can open his mouth, a voice behind them startles them both.

“Yes, what about Geralt ?”

Jaskier can physically feel his heart jumping around in his chest like a hare in a net. When the fuck did Yennefer come back, and how much did she hear just now ?

Unlike his heart though, Cirilla doesn't miss a beat and turns around.

“Do you think he’ll mind if I tell him I want to learn to fight but I don’t want to get the full witcher training ?”

The bard has never been prouder of Cirilla’s talent for lies, and if Yennefer caught it she doesn't show it. Instead, she comes closer and lays a soft hand on the girl’s cheek.

“Never. And even if he did, that would be his problem, certainly not yours.”

Cirilla closes her eyes, and leans into the touch with a sigh.

“And you won’t be mad if I don’t become a mage ?”

Jaskier lifts his head, catches Yennefer's impossibly tender gaze and can’t help but beam at her.

“She won’t, and even if she were, that would be her problem, wouldn't it ?”

Cirilla’s giggle quickly turns into a roar of laughter that covers his outraged shriek when Yennefer pinches his shoulder in retaliation.

Everything would be good.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It feels like time at the keep was holding its breath, and suddenly lets it all out. Days go by at a vertiginous pace, to the rhythm of clashing wooden swords and elder speech, and evenings are warm and long, buried under furs near the great hall’s fireplace and listening to songs and stories of witchers, past and present.

The wolves have fully welcomed the newcomers now, and there is something quite inebriating in seeing a relaxed Geralt in his natural habitat, smiling, joking, bantering and wrestling with his brothers, unburdened with the stress and hardships of the road. And his smile, Melitele his smile. There is no doubt his worries for Cirilla are far from gone, but his smile when he looks at her is one of the world’s finest wonders. Even Yennefer, who still revels in making him atone for his bullheadness, doesn't seem immune to this new facet of the white wolf. That is, when she is not giving Jaskier mocking looks when she catches him staring at Geralt with doe eyes, of course.

Despite his best judgement and the distant and admonishing voice of Essi begging him for some damn self respect somewhere inside his brain, Jaskier finds himself drawn back to the witcher like the young man he once was, and tries to deal with the situation the best way he knows of : By doing everything and anything to keep his mind off of it. Yes, again.

Now that he doesn't have to tame the wolves and that his menses are behind him, Jaskier can at last carry his own weight and doesn’t think twice before lending a hand to the various chores around the castle. Sure, he can't clear rubbles out of a destroyed scaffolding by himself like some, and sure his cooking skills are… Rudimentary at best, but he can still be useful !

From library indexing to poultry keeping, kitchen inventory to laundry, there is little time to breathe before the sun is completely set. And smaller even time to relish in one of the gods’ most precious gifts.

A bath.

A _warm_ bath.

Unexpected downside of refusing to ask one of the witchers for directions around the keep, finding only more than a month later that he could have indulged in a hot spring bath instead of cleaning himself in a pitiful wash basin or the ice cold torrent like some kind of animal.

It is no easy task to meticulously plan and make sure everyone is busy elsewhere before he finally makes his way to the door leading to the springs, and the sight is something to behold. Roof half gone, directly flanking the mountain rock and lit up with candles, the room is a curiously formed blend of natural and artificial, with three pools of different sizes carved from the mossy stones with steps and seats, a wooden bucket and soap shelf in a corner and _holy mother of fucks_ a very much naked Yennefer lounging in the steaming water and staring right at him.

The gasp Jaskier lets out turns into a burning wheeze at her sight, and the bard tries to avert his gaze, already painfully aware of the very deep shade of red his face has turnt into.

“Yennefer ! I wasn’t expecting to find you here, didn’t you say you wanted to get some reading done today ?”

She holds out what appears to be, if the bottle near her head is to be believed, a glass of mead from Vesemir’s personal liquor cabinet, and offers him an unrepentant smile.

“Oops. Busted.”

The thumping of his heart is so damn loud it almost covers her voice. Is there really no place for him to just… Relax, be himself for a second, without the permanent fear of stumbling onto prying eyes ?

“Ah, right, I’ll leave you to it then !”

“Stay.”

There is not a shred of doubt in the bard’s mind this is anything but an order.

“My, I wouldn't want to besmirch your pristine and vertuous reputation.”

_I don’t want you to see me like that._

“What happened to ‘sailed, wrecked and sunk to the bottom of the ocean’ then ?”

Okay alright, should have seen this one coming a mile away.

“Come.”

It’s still an order, but this time he manages to hear the smile in her tone. It takes every single bit of will power he has left to keep his mouth shut, to keep down the staccato of “get outs” echoing in his head, only to realise his legs are already moving towards her by their own accord.

Gods she could play him like a fiddle and he would find himself wishing for more.

Maybe he should still avert his eyes, look anywhere but at the stunningly beautiful sorceress who doesn't seem even a little bit bothered by his presence. Jaskier bites his tongue, how embarrassing is it really that he feels as if he were the naked one and she the fully dressed.

“Join me.”

The daring tone feels like a burning slap across his chest. How he’d love to take her up on her word, to simply disrobe and allow himself to enjoy the warm waters without a care for what anyone could think, let his poor body rest and heal from the constrictions and the accumulated stress.

Instead he’s freezing up, struggling to adjust his thoughts at the unanticipated pair of eyes scrutinising his every move, like a bloody doe on a cliff.

“Didn't think you were the kind to be afraid of getting wet.”

Screw this. Jaskier lets his toiletries bag fall to his feet, takes off his shoes and tights, and unlaces the ties on his calves so as to roll up the legs of his pants to his knees, then sits on the edge of the basin not too far from her to let his weary legs soak. If everything goes sideways, at least he’s going to enjoy the waters, even if it’s the first and only time.

“Not so much of getting wet my dear, but you have made it clear on multiple occasions you could severely maim me if so you fancied, you can’t blame me for being cautious !”

She takes a sip of her mead, eyeing him from head to sunken toes as he tries to not wriggle uncomfortably on the spot with worry. Maybe he would feel a lot less naked if she stopped looking at him like a panther toying with a wounded bird. She’s visibly perplexed at him staying in such a state of dress, and he’s trying to brace himself for the question he knows is coming right at him.

“Would you look at that. So you _do_ have some kind of self preservation left in you somewhere.”

Or maybe he knows shite, that works too.

“Shhh, don’t go around spreading the word, I have a reputation to uphold.”

“My lips are sealed.”

They laugh together, and for the first time since Geralt and Cirilla’s arrival, it hits him how much he’s missed spending time alone with the sorceress.

“How are you Yennefer ? Obviously stolen spirits put aside.”

“How do I look ?”

 _Naked_.

He raises his eyes to really look at her for the first time since coming in. Outside, with the others, she always seems like the terrible and powerful force of nature he’s come to adore as much as he fears her, without a trace of the state he found her in to be seen beneath her winter clothes. Right here, right now, he can still see the burnt marks all over her skin, slowly fading and healing, mesmerising patterns of brownish red barred with older white scars on her wrists. The sight makes him achingly aware of the pain in his own chest under the tight lacing and whalebones.

 _Vulnerable_.

“You look enchanting, as always, and you’re avoiding my questions, also as always.”

“Why do you care so much ?”

What is he supposed to say ? Because that's the right thing to do ? Because it wouldn't sit right to turn back to blind and bitchy jealousy after so much time together ? Because he’s grown to care for her ? In doubt, he shrugs.

“You seem to be getting along with Cirilla quite well, that’s nice.”

“Now who’s evading the question ?”

He lets out an embarrassed chuckle. Oops. But Yennefer goes on.

“I can see why you’re so fond of her. It’s been a long time since I last met kids her age in Aedirn, but I don’t recall any of them being quite as interesting as her.”

“Are you going to threaten me if I ask what you were doing in Aedirn ?”

“I might. Are you going to ask anyway ?”

“I am.”

They laugh, Yennefer hands him the bottle.

“I used to be a court mage. Supposedly to be the real power behind the scenes, but in reality more of a glorified baby-sitting sham. Sometimes literally.”

“So you got bored and left.”

She hums as he takes a mouthful of mead directly from the bottle.

“You know the funniest thing ? I went out of my way to go to Aedirn. Pissed off a lot of people who wanted to tell me what to do. But I didn't care. I saw something I thought I wanted more than anything and I took it. And I think I wanted it even more so because they told me I couldn’t.”

“It does sound a lot like you, I’ll give you that.”

“Says the one who specifically went on to keep an eye on a child you were told to ignore.”

“Ah ! _Touché_ !”

He fills up her glass and raises the bottle in a toast.

“To stubborn arseholes !”

“Cheers to that.”

They drink with only the sound of the wind howling above them.

“Speaking of stubborn arses. What about Geralt ?”

“What about him ?”

He honestly expected her to glare daggers at him, or at least to show her annoyance at the witcher’s mention. But to his surprise, his eyes are only met with a half smile. Not sure if that’s better.

“Do you intend to keep him grovelling at your feet begging for forgiveness for the rest of your hopefully very long days ?”

“He bound me, bard.”

Pain. Actual, honest, unshrouded by anger, true pain.

“He bound our fates together without me having a word in it, just like he did to Ciri, and I’m supposed to be grateful because he allegedly did it to save me ?”

“Fuck gratefulness.”

Jaskier is almost as surprised as Yennefer at his outburst. He tries to follow with a softer tone.

“But don’t you fear you’re denying yourself of something good, because you’re too stubborn to give in ? I can see the way you look at him.”

“So can I, but you don’t hear me stabbing at you with that poker, do you ?”

The bard can feel himself turning pink in the face. Walked right into that one, and of his own accord.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

Another silence.

“I think he really cares for you, for what it’s worth.”

“I know.”

Yennefer's gaze shifts to the sky.

“I hate that I can’t know for sure how real any of that is.”

“I think it is. Real.”

She stares at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Do enlighten me with your infinite wisdom, bard.”

He sticks his tongue at her and takes another sip from the mead.

“I keep telling Cirilla. Bounds, they don’t mean shit overall. We’re bound to our families by blood yet we can hate them. I’d wager hate can make an even stronger link than love actually. You and Cirilla, you’re stuck with Geralt. Well, unless you both team up to slit his throat in the middle of the night, but that would put all of us in quite a shitty position wouldn’t it ? Your steps will always converge at some point, but it doesn’t dictate how you must feel about him.”

Something on the edges of his brain is screaming something about blood, family and duty, and he shakes it off with another gulp.

“Is it again your gentleman manners to have thought about it so thoroughly ?”

He gives her a sheepish smile.

“Nope. Just had a chat with a very drunk Eskel the other day. Turns out his child surprise ended up hating his guts.”

She laughs at him.

“So both Ciri and I are linked to Geralt whether we like it or not. Where does that leave you ?”

“I…”

It’s not a blow. It’s not a gratuitous attack to get him off her back. Her amethyst eyes are far too openly kind for that. And yet he can feel the punch of the words landing exactly into his worst fear, and almost jerks when the sorceress lays her hand upon his.

“I don’t know.”

The whisper is so painful he needs to suppress a coughing fit.

“I’m just a bard who keeps meddling in things he ought not to.”

“You don’t believe that.”

Her fingers intertwine with his and squeeze in a comforting attempt. Gods how could he not smile at her ?

“Sometimes I do.”

“Well, that’s a bunch of bullshit.”

Well _that_ is unexpected.

“You can’t make such big speeches about fates meaning nothing compared to what we choose to do with them and then turn around and act like your choices don’t matter. You chose to follow him. You chose to care for Ciri. You chose them and when it all went to hell and you could have chosen to just run away and let Geralt take care of the girl you didn’t. You stayed and you fought for her. That ought to count for something.”

Jaskier can feel tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, wipes them off with his free hand.

 _And apparently I chose you too along the way_.

“Thank you, Yennefer. That was… Really kind. Thank you.”

He shakes his head, trying to gather his wandering thoughts in one place.

“So, are you finally going to stop torturing our Geralt ?”

 _Our_ ?

Yennefer lets go of his hand and stretches her arms above her head, lifting her breasts out of the water and _oh no no right now is not the time to get distracted come on Jask what the fuck is wrong with you_ ?

“I’ll see how well he behaves. Besides…”

Another time, another woman, that devilish smile would have made him kiss her on the spot.

“I think the groveling look suits him to a charm, don’t you think ?”

Jaskier half spits out half chokes on the mouthful of mead he was attempting to drink, and (poorly) attempts to hide his wholehearted approval behind a cackle. Once done coughing his lungs out, he reaches for her glass and grabs it away from her hands.

“ _I think_ you’ve had enough to drink tonight. Now, before you try and drown me : I may not grovel as nicely as Geralt, but I do happen to have with me what few vials of beauty oils I managed to salvage from your beautiful sneaky little hands. Would you allow me to take care of you ?”

 _Too far too far too far too far too far_ …

Yennefer eyes him from head to toes, passes her fucking tongue on her lips, and _purrs_.

“I suppose I could. Geralt may have mentioned once or twice your massages working miracles for his poor old back…”

They leave the springs an hour later, the sorceress almost glowing with contentment from getting pampered, and leaving behind her a scented trail of perfumes and lotions. Her hair is still wet, rolled and roughly pinned all around her head to preserve her curls as they dry, and her gait is different, relieved from the lingering tensions in her back and legs. As he drops her off at her door and without giving it a thought, he catches her hand in his and brings it to his lips with a chaste kiss.

It’s only back in the comfort of his own room that Jaskier realises he still hasn’t taken his bath gods damn it.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


“Yennefer. Witchest of the witches. Darkness of my nights. She who brings terror in the hearts of men…”

“Get to the point bard, what do you want ?”

He flops on a chair near her with his best attempt at a charming smile.

“What, I can’t spend some quality time with my favourite sorceress in all the mountains of Kaedwen ?”

“No you can’t. Come on, what’s your deal ?”

She snorted. Of all the sounds he’s heard her make (and suppress), that is the first time he’s ever heard her _snort_ and it is somehow the cutest thing he’s ever heard.

“I should be the one asking you my dear ! What is your deal ? How do you do it ?”

She raises a suspicious eyebrow at him.

“I’m talking about Vesemir, Yenn ! How did you manage to have him be so… Not grumpy at you all the time ?! I tried everything, _everything_ …”

“No you didn’t.”

The bard lets out a wounded gasp, dramatically brings a hand to his heart, and starts counting on his fingers.

“He likes books, I tried talking about books ; he likes people who help around the keep, I have cleaned and spinned so much wool my fingers will never feel the same again ; he likes people who are not completely useless in a fight, I have trained with Eskel just to prove I could survive at least thirty full seconds in a fight. I have done _everything_ , and it’s never enough !”

“Can we circle back to the fact that you know how to spin wool ?”

“No ! And there you are, the most terrifying woman I have ever met, certainly one of the least people-person aside from Geralt, and somehow he doesn’t seem to hate you as much as he does me !”

Her smile as she rests her head on a hand is, simply put, gorgeous. Even though she’s still looking at him like some kind of annoying puppy. He’s about to go on with his whining when Geralt and Cirilla enter the room, covered in sweat, melted snow and dirt. Time may have passed, and Yennefer may have stepped down in her treatment of him, but the witcher still seems quite awkward when he sees the bard and the sorceress getting along, which fills Jaskier with a smug pettiness.

Geralt goes to the fireplace to put some things to dry, and the bard opens his arms to welcome Cirilla, her hair in a braided mess that definitely will need to be cleaned out and redone, and her cheeks reddened by the cold. The kid rolls her eyes at him, but still nests against him and it’s cold and it’s wet but he wouldn't trade it for the world.

“How was training today, princess ?”

“I think I’m starting to get the hang of it ! Eskel says I should soon start working with real blades but Geralt thinks I need more practice. What were you two talking about ?”

“The bard was whining because he thinks Vesemir should hate me as much as him.

“I was not !”

In his arms, Cirilla laughs at his outrage.

“Oh yeah ! I noticed that too ! I thought he was nicer because you are a beautiful woman.”

A speckle of pink appears on Yennefer’s face, and crouched near the fireplace Geralt gets very stiff as Jaskier interjects.

“But that doesn't make sense, does it ? If anything he should be even more grumpy that such a mesmerising creature could be distracting his precious witcher pups !”

The sound of a throat getting cleared signals that Geralt has finally decided to join the discussion as he gets back to his feet.

“You don’t know what you're talking about.”

“Ooh do you know something Geralt ? If you knew something you would tell me, right, right ? Geralt ?”

The witcher doesn't even comment, which, rude, and goes on.

“We are not animals, we’re not going to lose our minds because there is a woman among us, no matter how beautiful.”

My, that almost sounded like a compliment !

“Not now, but what about when you were kids ? This school was only for boys wasn't it ? Were there any women around so you’d know what they looked like or were you left to your gross teenage boys ways ?”

Yennefer frowns her nose.

“You are disgusting.”

“No, I’m with him, boys are gross.”

“Thank you cub, your support is much appreciated.

Geralt clears his throat again, an attempt to refocus, to little effect.

“There were few women in the castle, but I can barely really remember if they were mages, witchers, or what their jobs were. But you are both right, we were gross boys.”

A gleeful squee escapes Jaskier's throat as he dramatically pretends to put his hands over Cirilla’s ears.

“Geralt, you can’t speak like that in front of the princess ! What kind of education would that be !”

“But you’re the one who…”

A roar of laughter resonates in the room, carried in unison by Jaskier and Ciri, with a chuckle from Yennefer as an offbeat ostinato. If Geralt truly is vexed by their teasing, it doesn’t last long before he finally shakes his head with a growing smile.

“Alright, I get it, that's enough. Come on Ciri. You need to get cleaned up before lunch, or you’ll lose the privilege of calling others gross.”

“Coming Geralt !”

Ciri jumps out from Jaskier's lap after a last malicious look, and the bard himself gets to his feet. If lunch is around the corner this means there will be work to do _somewhere_ , even if it’s never enough for the grumpy grandfather witcher. As he sets out to leave, Yennefer is behind him, has grabbed his hand and is giving him a strange look.

“I will let you in on a confidence, songbird. You wanna know how I got Vesemir to stop pestering me ?”

Jaskier almost chokes and nods frenetically. The witch leans in closer and whispers in his ear so low that he doubts even a witcher could hear her. Actually, even himself has trouble hearing her with his heartbeat suddenly getting so damn loud.

“The secret is blackmail. I got my hand on some dirt he doesn't want his pups to know about, now we are in an agreement he is not to mess with me.”

The bard opens wide his mouth but manages to stop himself from making the undignified mix of gasp and squee he would really like to get out. Instead, he tries his best to match her whisper.

“What is it ? What did you find ?!”

Jaskier can’t see it but still _feels_ the air shifting in the crook of his neck as Yennefer puts on her most predatory smile.

“Aww, wouldn’t _you_ like to know…”

And with a swirl of berry scented perfume she is gone, leaving him blinking for a second, and then shrieking in outrage under the concerned and amused looks of Geralt and Ciri.

  
  


He’s barely been putting the plates together in the kitchen for five minutes when a voice startles him.

“I meant to speak with you.”

His heart jumps, as well as himself in a very not-gracious pirouette.

“Why, hello Lambert, good to see you too, I’m well thank you for asking ! How are you doing this marvelous day ?”

It’s painfully visible that the witcher holds back a snarl at the cheeky answer. But the simple fact that it _is_ held back is enough for concern.

“Come on man, what’s going on with you ?”

Lambert seems uncomfortable. Rather irritated and irritating, but Jaskier’s come to expect that from him, yet it appears he’s actually trying to find words.

“We didn't get a chance. Couldn't find a moment.”

“You’re going to need to be more specific here mate.”

The wolf bares his teeth as a warning.

“Geralt and Eskel told me. That you tore them a new one because they wanted to turn Ciri.”

The bard can feel his face grow red as he puffs his chest. Like hells he’s going to be intimidated by that brute for sticking up for his princess.

“So what, now you’re going to tell me that was none of my business and I should leave the witcher things to you ? Not a chance big boy.”

With all his bravado, Jaskier still can’t help glancing at the door, fear drawing painful breaths from him. 

“What ? No screw that shit, I wanted to thank you !”

“What ?”

He blinks once, twice, progressively deflating like a wet paper lantern as Lambert rubs his face, clearly struggling to put his thoughts together in a civil manner.

“The girl. She would have agreed to anything to survive. Now she can choose, and that’s because of you and the witch. So thanks.”

Now that he’s almost convinced the witcher isn’t going to gut him on the spot, Jaskier allows himself a joke.

“Aaw, Lamby, I didn't think you cared so much about Cirilla you big softie !”

Scratch that part about not getting gutted, will you ?

“You think it’s a fucking joke ? Our friends, my brothers, died for this fucking hell on earth. Got yanked from our lives to get poisoned, like pigs to the slaughterhouse, and serve people who want us stoned dead at best. I’m not a fucking monster, of course I care that the girl doesn't live trough that !”

Well when you put it that way…

“Hey, hey there, I’m sorry okay. I didn’t think this through.”

“Of course you didn’t. Don’t know what I expected. You’re the one yapping about our great lives of adventures and fame aren’t you ?”

“Now that’s not fair…”

“Really ?”

Okay. Point taken.

The witcher growls in discontentment and turns heels, when Jaskier suddenly realises.

“Lambert ? Before you go I have something to ask you.”

“Fuck off bard.”

“Cirilla mentioned she didn’t want to change her body, but I thought Geralt told me the formulas for your mutations were all gone ? What was that about ?”

There must be more worry in his voice than he realises, because Lambert actually turns back.

“Herbs used for the trial of the grasses have been destroyed and forgotten when the mages were killed in the sacking and that’s for the fucking best. There are other potions, like you’ve seen Geralt use some. And then there's one, when the pups were training. Got us to build more muscle, more quickly. They said it would put some hair on our chests more quickly.”

Put some…

“The school of the wolf is male only…”

“The girls change, more than the boys, more _like_ the boys. Apparently old wolves thought _that_ was too unnatural for them. Out of all the fucking monstrosities in this shitshow, _that’s_ were they drew the line. At girls getting big and hairy.”

Jaskier feels the sudden wave of panic simmering inside of him like an incoming summer storm. Shards of thoughts and feelings shattered and mixed with no sense nor reason.

It feels like being kicked in the face by a horse.

Why does it hurt so bad ? It’s not like he didn’t know there were potions out there. Not like he never thought about seeking them.

 _Coward_.

So close.

“Bard ?”

_You fucking coward._

It feels like the world is spinning out of control.

Control, yes, control, that’s what he thought he needed, what he thought he _had_ for half a second. Control over his looks, his voice, surrounded by mostly friendly faces, no one giving a shit to the ever running rumours… 

“Bard what the fuck ?”

 _Even the witchers thought you were too monstrous_ _to be allowed_.

It feels like his legs have disappeared into the nether.

Fight, flight, no matter what you told yourself you never were much of a fighter, were you ? Why don’t you do the only thing you’ve ever been good at ?

“I need some air.”

Jaskier walks past Lambert like a ghost, barely aware of the sounds coming out of the witcher’s mouth.

The walls and torches around him blend into a fog.

 _Get out get out get out_.

He has no idea how he made it outside, no idea if he walked or ran but he is out of breath.

 _Pain, pain, breathe, pain_.

Steps away from the courtyard, the stables, the gates, snow, cold, good.

Knees deep in snow, fumbles, cries, a wheezing sound into a cough, pain, pain.

“Jaskier ?”

Voices, people, no no no no no get away, get away. Stumbles, falls, cold snow on his face, chest, arms.

“Jaskier !”

Can’t think, coughs, can’t breathe, need to puke but can’t, can’t, coughs.

“What’s going on ?”

“Ciri get inside.”

“I’m not leaving him !”

“Go find Yennefer, quick !”

Coughs, steps in the snow, cries, cries.

Arms.

Arms around him, lift him up like a wounded deer. Coughs and wheezes, someone is walking him back, back inside, too warm, it burns.

“Open his door !”

“He’s burning up !”

“What happened ?”

“He just ran off, I don’t know !”

“Jaskier, can you hear me ?”

Falling, no laid down, warm, too warm, bed, hurts, hurts.

“He can’t breathe.”

Hands, on his doublet, his blouse, his, oh no no no no don’t please don’t don’t I’m sorry I’m sorry.

“Why do these things have so many buttons ?!”

Try to fight, to push, to claw, don’t, please, I beg you, I’m sorry I won’t do it again I promise I promise…

“Stop it, you’re hurting him !”

“Jaskier please stop, please let me help you.”

No, no, no…

“I’m sorry.”

“Geralt, don’t !”

The sound of fabric being ripped apart, a rush of fresh air floods his lungs, and then silence.

Through his tears, the world slowly comes back to him. Yennefer is standing against the closed door with an unreadable look upon her face, Cirilla buried in her arms against her and crying in muffled hiccups. Geralt is sitting over him and slowly brings his hand to Jaskier's cheek to caress it with an impossible tenderness when their eyes meet.

“Jaskier, you’re okay. You’re okay.”

Before the bard can process, Geralt's is bent in half, forehead pressing against his, hand still caressing his temples as the cold medallion falls onto Jaskier's bared chest. 

“I thought I’d lost you again. Jaskier…”

That’s not right. That’s not Geralt. Geralt doesn’t look at him with pupils blown wide like this. Like he’s precious, like the world would fall apart if he lost sight of him. Geralt doesn’t pant his name like a prayer to the gods above and below, doesn’t hold him like the most fragile thing in the world and he’s afraid to shatter him. He’s just the bard, he’s not important, he’s not someone he’ll ever love, not this way. Geralt can’t ever touch or look at him like that, like he does Yennefer, like he does…

_Like he does women._

The bard closes his eyes shut, desperately trying not to melt at the sensation of the witcher's breath against his face, his lips, so close… So cruel. Did he really commit such crimes for the fates to punish him like this ? To dangle his most intimate desire right in front of him only to gut him out when he’s close enough to touch it ?

"So you think of me as a woman now ? Is that it ?"

"What..?"

Geralt bolts upright like a scared cat. Jaskier sits up on the bed, the anger and despair bubbling painfully in his stomach and chest over the ashes of the panic attack.

"I’m not a fool. I don't need your pity."

He realises one of his hands is still gripping to Geralt's wrist, in what is left of his attempts at pushing him away. He wants to scream, but can't find the strength. The room is starting to spin around him again, a buzzing sound ringing in his ears as he keeps talking.

"I have been at your side for years Geralt. I was proud to call you my friend. Even when the world thought I’d merely annoyed my way into walking your steps.”

A joyless laugh falls from his lips, along with a cough and new jolt of pain around his freed ribs.

“Jaskier, you’re hurt.”

“It’s funny you know, sometimes I really wondered if there was truth in their venom.”

Jaskier is not making any sense. He knows that but can’t help the words from pouring from his throat in a faint voice, barely louder than a whisper.

“You never looked at me. Years by your side, watching after you, writing, singing about you. Lighting your fire and eating your bread, tending to your wounds. We’ve been friends when you pretended we weren’t. But you didn't look at me.”

His palms are hurting. When did he start clenching his fists ?

“I tried… Tried not to care for it. Took me a long time, but after all I couldn't blame you, could I ?”

Shit, he can feel the tears as they build up to the corner of his eyes and knows he has to wrap this pathetic monologue up before he makes even more of a fool of himself.

“But now it’s okay for you isn’t it ? You’ve seen my chest and now you take me for a woman, if only an odd one ? You think now it’s okay to seek comfort in my arms. Because you think I’m just another of the broken women you keep around to act the white knight part.”

His eyes fall to Yennefer's face, the pain now boiling inside of him.

“Well now you can get the fuck out of my life Geralt of Rivia. I do not need your pity, I won’t let you take me for a fool or make one out of myself and I will go on with my life twice the man you and your bullshit have ever been. I said get out. Get OUT !”

He had screamt that last part with all the force and rage he was still capable of, despite the excruciating pain in his rib, pushing away the witcher’s arm he was still holding on to. And for a second it feels like the screams Cirilla is capable of.

Geralt looks like a kicked puppy. A kicked puppy who furrows his brow and raises his arm in an attempt to reach for him, the most out of place insult to injury. Jaskier jerks back, knocking against the bedframe, his hands raising to his face to keep him from looking at the witcher. Screams and coughs are still coming out of his mouth louder and more painful with every inch he can feel Geralt's hand closing the air between them. Until there is a rumble near the door and the witcher stops.

"That will be enough."

Jaskier's hands slowly slide down his face and he opens his eyes to the sight of Yennefer holding back Geralt's wrist.

"Yen..."

"I said."

Her voice is not angry. It sounds... Careful, and yet definitive.

"That will be enough."

The witcher opens his mouth as if to speak, but shuts it off instantly. Instead, he lets out a noise that has no right to sound so hurt, shakes his wrist free from Yennefer's hold and leaves the room with a miserable look upon his face.

Jaskier folds his knees against his chest, crosses his arms upon them and lays his head on top of it all.

Yennefer sits beside him, and softly lays a hand on his nape.

"You need to…”

The rest is a blurr, the high pitched ringing and nausea he had forgotten was even there suddenly overpowering him as the room goes spinning. Last thing he hears as his head hits the pillow are the faraway voices of Cirilla and Yennefer calling his name.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you so much for everyone's reviews on the previous chapter ! It really means a lot to me to see this story resonate with others. Let me assure you, the biggest angst train is behind us, and the rest of the (emotional) story will mostly be about rebuilding what was broken.
> 
> /!\ *Warning : this chapter contains fever nightmares, and a trans man character being very uncomfortable about being naked in medical care setting.* /!\
> 
> It is not the same amount of distressing as the end of the previous chapter, but I don't want to trigger anyone carelessly. If you think I should add another warning or tag please let me know.

He’s walking down the corridors of his childhood castle, barefoot, sniffing and calling for his brother.

His knees are slowly sinking in a freshly dug unmarked grave.

He’s riding a skeletal mare through a dark forest as voices call his name beyond the trees. 

_Je suis fille le jour, et la nuit blanche biche_ . _La chasse est après moi, des barons et des princes_.

He’s on stage at Oxenfurt, a final exam he never passed. Opens his mouth to sing but can’t make a sound.

He’s on his hands and knees in the snow but as he tries to get up he sees roots sprouting from his skin running deep into the earth, pulling him into the ground .

You can’t kill a weed.

He’s in a tavern in Posada and instead of bread is thrown heavy stones.

He’s bathing in the springs with Yennefer under a sky of fire. She kisses him as her nails turn into claws and she drags him into the depths to drown.

Cintra is burning, Cintra is burning.

He’s weeping in front of a bed, there lies Esperanza, buried under flowers. Roses, lilies, jasmine, buttercups and dandelions.

He’s inside the dragon’s cave on the mountain, gazing at his reflection in its scales when Cirilla emerges from the darkness clad in witcher armor, to slice him up with a silver sword.

He wakes up gasping for air and clutching drapes against his chest, unable to tell how long has passed since he lost consciousness. The pain in his chest and back is faded but not gone. He feels like shit, drenched in sweat from head to toe, and grimaces when he realises his clothes have been changed while he was out of it. There's light coming from between the shutter planks but he can’t tell what time it could be.

Something shifts to his side, and as he turns he is met by Yennefer's very sleepy eyes staring at him. By the looks of it, she must have fallen asleep watching over him.

“Finally awake songbird ? You gave us all a fright.”

“´morning.”

He sits up, his fingers still clenched painfully around the fabric he’s holding like the last remnant of a long gone virtue. His throat is sore, tastes like ash, he sounds like a tone deaf frog and suddenly there is a glass of liquid in one of his hands.

“You need to drink. You lost a lot of water with the fever and your throat is a mess.”

“Cirilla…”

“Asleep in her room. She didn't want to leave your side, I had to send her away.”

_But you stayed ? Why ?_

There is still a thrumming behind his temples, he’s too weak to argue with her or ask any of the other questions eating at him. He sips cautiously at the glass, and frowns.

“What’s in this ?”

“I’m not in the mood to poison you and I’m not waiting all day for you to get your head out of your arse. Drink.”

“Yennefer…”

She rubs her eyes, smudging even more the black makeup that once lined it neatly, and sighs.

“Water, honey and elfin thyme.”

Jaskier stares at the cup. Even if there was something else in it, it’s not like he could actually tell right ? 

“Jaskier, you need to drink.”

The bard turns his head towards the sorceress at her plea. As far as he can recall, that’s the second time she's called him by name, first time being, well, as he was plunging into unconsciousness right after…

Right after.

“You’re thinking too much.”

He winces painfully.

“Get out of my head, witch.”

It takes a second for her to answer, and when she does the lack of bite takes him by surprise.

“I don’t need to look to know what you’re thinking, and I have no intent of starting now. Could you please just drink ?”

Shame twists his insides as he downs the cup. The drink is not bad, but despite the sweetness of the honey it is still hard to swallow.

“Good. Now comes the part where you’re going to hate me.”

“Haven't I always ?”

She smiles tenderly and caresses his sticky forehead. Dear gods how hard it is to keep himself from leaning into her touch with a whimper.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

He closes his eyes, somnolent, and gives a non-committal humm as an answer.

“I need to get you cleaned and into fresh clothes.”

He stiffens, freezes almost if not for his eyes snapping open and the hand holding the drapes against turning white from the effort.

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes. You are so drenched I wouldn’t be surprised to find a water hag hiding in your sheets.”

A scoff falls out of his lips, something of a laugh muffled by defensiveness.

“Why can't I get changed on my own like a grown man exactly ?”

“Be my guest and try to raise your arms above your head.”

Jaskier frowns, and stares at the sorceress with… Let’s say ‘cautious defiance’ to spare his pride. Truth be told, moving his shoulders at all and pressing the fabric against his chest is already on the brink of too painful.

“What happened to me ?”

“Besides catching a fever by prancing around in mountain snow in the middle of winter ? Not much really. You managed to crack two ribs by coughing, and sprained your shoulder when you tried to fight Geralt off. Your back is also a mess, but I suspect that’s not new.”

Yennefer sighs again, as he tries to avoid her gaze uncomfortably.

“Listen to me carefully songbird. I assure you I take no pleasure in seeing you like this. But if you won’t allow me for your sake, would you please do it for Ciri ?”

“Hmm ?”

Is that what it feels to be Geralt on a bad day ? To let the others do the talking and grunt to buy more time ?

“She wouldn’t let me touch you. Changed you and warmed you all on her own the first time. She also kept Geralt from getting in, wouldn't budge no matter what anyone said. She's a fierce and stubborn little one, our cub.”

“That she is.”

Pride swells in Jaskier's chest, immediately followed by shame.

“I didn’t… I don’t want her to cut him off…”

Yennefer's soothing hand comes back to his, rubbing at him with her thumb.

“You need not worry about that. They’re okay, or at least they will be once she’s rested. But this is no burden for a child to bear. So let me help you so she can finally let go of it.”

It takes him a few seconds to think, to try and put his thoughts in order.

“Two conditions.”

She raises an eyebrow but there’s a, dares he say, relieved smirk on her face. He holds his hand out to count on his fingers dramatically and mother _fucker,_ drama flourishes should not be that painful.

“One, I can clean myself. If you really can’t keep your hands off me I’ll let you rub my back, but that’s it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself pretty bird…”

“And two, you have to tell me what kind of dirt you have on Vesemir.”

It is quite obvious the burst of laughter takes Yennefer by surprise, but it’s still one of the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard and puts a smile on his weary face instantly.

“You drive a tough bargain. Alright you little piece of shit.”

“You love me that way.”

“Bold of you to assume I even like you.”

His smile turns into a laugh, which turns into a coughing fit and Melitele’s saggy tits, those ribs really are cracked aren’t they ?

“Get your arse up, your bath awaits.”

Getting out of bed and into Yennefer's room is the easy part, even if it takes Jaskier far more energy than necessary to brace himself for the few steps across the corridor, frantically checking around to make sure there is no witcher nearby.

Stepping inside said room and taking in how much it has very much shifted from “hers” (even though very much forcibly appropriated) to a mix and match of Yennefer and Geralt’s stuff is… Harder. Not as hard as letting the sorceress carefully put her hands on him to take his clothes off without vibrating out of his own skin, but still harder.

Yennefer leaves as soon as he gets in the wooden tub, with the promise to return soon and that no one can open the door without her permission, and he is left to soak and sulk alone.

He knew Geralt had taken over Jaskier's night watches by Yennefer's side, and that no matter how harshly she could talk to him during the days, she accepted him by her side at night, as she had done the bard, just like he knew she had been less sharp with the witcher after their talk in the springs. There is warmth in his stomach at the thought of their rekindling flame, and yet something still wriggles under his skin when the proofs of their entanglements align neatly before his eyes, an aching that would be too easy to mistake for jealousy if he didn’t know better.

 _Envy_.

Jaskier has no idea how long has passed when the sorceress eventually comes back with a towel and some clean clothes he hears her lay down on a chair.

“Are you done ?”

He nods without turning his head, still trying his best not to meet her gaze in his current state, and sits up, gathering his legs against his bruised chest.

“Good.”

He can feel her get closer and braces for what comes next.

“I have something for you, but you will have to trust me.”

“Haven't I done that already ?”

She ignores his remark, probably for the best.

“It needs to be massaged into your skin.”

“I knew you couldn’t resist my charms forever.”

He tries. Gods does he try to put the same playfulness into his words, but something is lacking. He takes a deep breath and flinches when she puts a hand on his shoulder.

“How many times must I tell you, I take no pleasure in seeing you in this state.”

“Well it’s hardly my fault you can’t enjoy a work of art, do you have any idea how many people would be delighted to be in your shoes right now ?”

Evading, avoiding…

“Jaskier…”

He shudders at his name, and places a hand upon the one she put on his shoulder before he finally turns his head and meets her eyes.

“Just, get on with it, please.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

_I know._

There are chafing marks burnt onto his skin where the hem of his binding bodice strained against him. He never was the best at listening to anyone, but he’d tried for so long to remember Maja and Gwann’s warnings about what could happen if he wasn't careful : taking breaks, layering as best he could to let his skin and bones heal. But in the end it wasn't enough, and the back pain, bruising and skin issues had been silent companions for a long time before this whole debacle.

The ointment, both hot and cold against the skin of his back suddenly wakes him up, accompanied by a smell not unlike the inside of an old lady’s bag.

“What’s in this one ?”

Her scoff on his nape sends shivers down his spine.

“Are you secretly versed in herbal remedies songbird ?”

If he grumbles like a child at her teasing, it’s nobody’s business but his own.

“Goat weed, mountain arnica and valerian.”

“Did you ransack poor Vesemir’s alchemy lab as well as his liquor storage ? I’ll be damned, he must really want his secrets to stay hidden.”

“No ransacking nor blackmail needed this time, the herbs were given freely.”

“By old grandpa wolf himself ?”

“By Eskel, actually.”

Jaskier clenches his jaw tightly for a second, unsure how he feels about another wolf getting involved in… This. But not talking makes it harder for him to ignore Yennefer's hands rubbing against his skin in ways that make him want to cry and moan at the same time.

“What’s the oil supposed to do ?”

“Help your back feel better. It should relax your muscles and ease the pain. It should also get your skin to heal properly, hopefully lower the fever and make you sleep better too. It’s not magic, but it's the next best thing I could come up with.”

“Why not magic ? I thought your powers were back ?”

“If you want magical remedies then next time you try and get knocked out by something magical and not your own recklessness.”

Aouch. Well, he deserved it. Kinda.

This time he manages to stay quiet, to let her work the oil deeper without another interruption, to let his mind wander far away from the keep and its inhabitants.

“...with me ?”

“Mmm..?”

How long has he been out exactly ?

“I said, are you still with me ?”

“As long as you’ll tolerate me my dear.”

He expects an exasperated scoff that never comes, and instead gets the fleeting feeling of filed fingernails scratching patterns into his spine and a whisper way too close to his ear.

“Don’t tempt me, little wren.”

The bard's throat suddenly goes impossibly dry as he struggles to swallow. Thankfully, a light double tap on his shoulders keeps him focused.

“I’m all done here. Do you want to soak a bit more or get out ?”

“I’m all good.”

That’s not true. He couldn't wash his hair decently because of the biting pain in his right arm, but he’s not about to tell her that _now_.

He gets up, and the silence as the sorceress helps him get dried and clothed feels heavy, uncomfortable. No matter how much they’ve gotten close, no matter how many times he’s dreamt of her touching him, this was never how he’d wished this fantasy to come true. This is wrong, humiliating despite all the carefulness he can feel in her hands and it is certainly not the kind of agony he ever hoped for.

The few steps back to his room feel even worse than the other way, heavier. The fever may be better now, but it’s certainly not gone and he’s getting wearier by the minute.

The room has been aired, the drapes changed, and there's a light plate of food on his bedside table which both makes him drool with hunger and recoil with nausea. Only when he is sat in bed again does the thought finally manage to get its way to his mouth…

“Where is my…”

Only for the words to die on his lips. Why would it matter ? The bodice has been ripped apart, and it’s not the first time he’ll need to make a whole new one because it’s gone beyond mending. But still the thought of not having it to his side is a bitter one. A stressful one.

Apparently, Yennefer doesn't need to read his mind to understand him immediately. Or maybe she lied to him and she actually _has_ been prying in his head the whole time. It’s an ugly thought, one he doesn't even truly believe but can’t get rid of, slithering right behind his ears.

“It wasn’t salvageable. I took it away.”

“I would like to have it back, please.”

Hissing, whispering, shame and anger, simmering. Why the fuck exactly is he pleading like a child to get back his most intimate possession ?

“I can’t let you hurt yourself like that.”

“And why the fuck exactly ?”

“I told you why.”

“Because of Cirilla ? That’s a load of horseshit.”

What was simmering is now boiling, with snaps of frustration and anger in his voice. He can see her, feel her, annoyance creeping under her skin, good, at last some sense of normalcy in this entire shitshow.

“I know what you're doing.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean ?”

A shot of burning amethysts right through his heart.

“Do you think I can’t tell a page from our damn witcher’s book when I see one ? Fine. I’m telling you I know exactly what you're doing and it’s not going to work with me. You’re sick, hurt, you’re humiliated, you don’t want pity and you can’t imagine anyone could actually care for you at the moment. Well you can snap at me like a rabid bitch all you want, I’m not leaving your sorry ass and I’m not letting you hurt yourself further because you’re a stubborn brat !”

Her outburst lands like a punch to his guts and brings tears to the corner of his eyes. She's right, he is a stubborn arse, and another day certainly he’d escalate the shoutfest even more. But now, right now, he’s exhausted and, even though she was right that he was trying to push her away, possibly terrified at the thought of going too far and losing her and whatever their strange relationship is blooming into.

“You don’t… I _need_ it, Yenn. It's not like I could wear the blasted thing yet even if I wanted to. I just… It’s important to me.”

 _Please_. He won’t say it. Not this time. He won’t beg for what is his.

He doesn't even realise Yennefer's hand is on his arm before she squeezes it lightly.

“Jaskier, I promise you I will get it back to you as soon as I can. But right now that's not possible.”

There's a strange intensity in her voice that makes him shiver, probably a leftover from her scolding, and he doesn't dare protest again. Or say anything really.

“You should eat and get some rest now, your fever has not broken yet.”

Like a dwarven clockwork, Jaskier's attempt at protesting he’s already rested plenty is interrupted by a yawn that almost dislocates his jaw when he tries to suppress it. Vain attempt as it is, as the sorceress quirks an eyebrow and the corner of her lips with a gentle teasing look. Before he knows it the plate of food is on his lap and he’s picking at it at a slow and steady pace, trying his best to ignore the thought that maybe hunger possibly maybe somewhat related to his built up crabbiness. He’s roughly halfway done with it when the realisation eventually dawns on him.

“What about your end of the deal ? You need to tell me what you have on grandpa wolf or I shall surely despair and never recover fully !”

He hopes for a laugh, a scoff, an annoyed smile. He’s not prepared for her carnivorous smirk and the mischief in her eyes.

“Never said I’d give it up right away. You’re not on your feet yet.”

He’s no better prepared for her hand ruffling the damp curls on the top of his head tand strangling his protests in their tracks.

“Patience pretty bird, you still need to be a good boy and let me help you all the way if you want your reward.”

It’s a good thing he can blame the fever for the dark red shade he can feel spreading through his face and chest as he struggles not to wiggle where he's sat. Her playful taunt should not by any mean work that well in his distressed state, and yet here he is, biting his tongue on a “yes ma’am” that almost came out as a reflex.

They should definitely talk about this. But not now. Not now.

He finishes his plate in silence under her watchful eyes and stretches his arms as best he can with a moany yawn.

“I think I’m going to take a nap if you don’t mind. Can you… Can you tell Cirilla I’m okay ?”

Yennefer smiles as she gets up and gathers the remnants of his meal.

“I will make sure of that. Get some rest now.”

She hasn’t closed the door yet when Jaskier's head falls onto his pillow, fast asleep.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


He’s sitting at a banquet table and can only watch when they uncover his own severed head on a silver platter.

_But the story is this…_

Maja is teaching him how to spin wool, a strand of his hair gets caught in the wheel and unravels him into nothingness.

There’s a crown on his head, it is the same gold that binds his wrists behind his back and it can feel it burning at his skin.

 _She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_ … 

He nuzzles into sir Danek’s embrace for warmth and comfort but when he opens his eyes they're tickled by long silver locks.

A sunflower field at midday. The white hind is waiting for him, but the hunting horn is getting closer.

 _I am weak, my love, and I am wanting_.

Jaskier wakes one again with cold sweats freezing down his spine but this time without a sound, nor Yennefer by his side. His heart is still racing from the string of fever dreams and his stomach is tied in so many knots it could rival a Skellige ship.

Still trying to calm himself down, his gaze dances around him. It’s dark outside, but the room is softly lit by the dancing lights of a new fire, there is a new plate of food on his bedside table and a pitcher of fresh water near it. His eyes linger on his own stuff, and something rattles his insides. He knows his reputation for being an avatar of chaos, and yet his bags are barely undone, laid by a desk and a chair upon which his winter cloak is sitting, everything ready to be grabbed to run away at a moment's notice. The comparison with Yennefer's room where her clothes and scents are sprawled everywhere and mixed with Geralt's leathers is hard not to make and it is a pain to get rid of. Some habits die hard.

Cautiously, the bard gets to his feet and tiptoes to the desk where his notebooks are spread in careful order and his lute case is preciously tucked. It’s late, probably too late to play, and even if he didn't care about that the thought of anyone being drawn to his room by the music is an uncomfortable one. So instead of the lute he takes his work in progress notebook (the formerly red one, now worn to a red-ish brown by time and travels), a sharp pencil, and sits by the fireplace on the fur carpet.

The song is done before he needs to add a new log to the fire. It’s no prowess worthy of praise, most of it was already spinning in his head by the time he’d gotten down from that damn mountain, but still it fills him with a feeling of freedom. Getting back upward is harder from the ground, and he's going to regret it come the morning, but Jaskier couldn't care less. He puts away the notebook and pencil, stirs at the embers in the fireplace, and gets back to his bed, not quite free from the melody that ensnared him but still lighter. He falls asleep, mumbling, but this time the song does not follow him into his dreams.

 _I welcome my sentence, give to you my penance_.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Yennefer could you be a dear and next time you see Eskel tell him to keep his damned goat on a leash ? It feels like the bloody beast is stomping on my brain.”

“You can tell him yourself when you’re well again you dramatic baby, I am not your carrier pigeon.”

It’s the third time Yennefer has come to check his injuries and help him bathe and change. They’re settled in quite the cozy rhythm, and though he still can feel his insides twist uncomfortably when she helps him undress, it's more and more bearable, and they don't mention it the rest of the time.

She made it clear she is no benevolent medic and has no intention to spend more time than necessary at his bedside, but still she lingers afterwards. They talk a bit, chitchats about music and poetry, nothing too serious and certainly nothing about the fact that he has tits or the thrice damned witcher and isn’t that a relief ? (Okay maybe not as much as he’d hoped, but let's focus on the positive instead of reflecting on the damages caused by bottled up _feelings_.)

A slight creak of wood outside precedes a soft knock on the door, far too shy to be of any wolf’s doing, and even though it takes him barely a second to realise who is on the other side, he still tenses up, and the invitation to come in almost gets stuck in his throat.

Cirilla enters the room with quick glances at Yennefer like a mouse tiptoeing around a cat which is… Weird, almost unsettling considering how close those two have grown together in the last months.

“Is it okay for me to come in ?”

The sorceress has a slight tilt of the head at the words, apparently equally puzzled by Cirilla’s sudden mistrust, but raises to her feet to give her her chair nonetheless.

“Of course love, I’ll leave you two alone.”

As she goes past the girl, Yennefer offers a soft hand and a kiss on the forehead, caressing her head down to her shoulder. It’s quite possible the bard lets out a relieved breath he did not know he was holding when he sees the kid’s tension melt under the warm touch like snow in spring.

Cirilla settles on the chair as Yennefer walks out, and stays silent until the sorceress's steps have faded in the distance. She looks older again, her brows furrowed in the same look she had when he’d seen her again for the first time in the courtyard, after all the pain and loss, and Jaskier sits up in the bed to take her hand in his.

“I’m so glad to see you, cub, how are you doing ?”

No answer. The girl opens her mouth to speak once, twice, only to snap it shut and bite on her lips in a way that makes Jaskier wince with pain.

“What’s going on cub, what has you so worked up ?”

“Are you going to leave us ?”

She’s twitching and he can feel a stone in his stomach (which doesn't sit well with the infusions Yennefer keeps making him drink, mind you).

“What are you talking about love, I’m fine, I just need a bit more rest, I’m not gonna let a stupid cold be the end of The Ballad of Jaskier, The Greatest Bard that Ever Was !”

She snorts, a mix of surprise, amusement and annoyance only truly mastered by teenage girls.

“I _know_ you’re not going to die, I think my ears would fall off if I heard your “I’m too young and too pretty to die !” schtick one more time !”

_Doesn’t matter, I still managed to make you smile._

“You said you were going to get on with your life, without Geralt.”

“Cirilla… I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“No please, listen to me…”

She’s back to twitching in her seat, her hands now untangled from his and clenched over her knees in a (failed) attempt at keeping them quiet and her eyes locked on her fingers.

“I’m sorry he hurt you. I didn’t stop him in time, but… You know he’s not a bad guy. When we saw you, he was so scared for you, I never saw him like this… Eskel says so too. He panicked…”

Her eyes, bright and on the brink of tears, finally meet his own.

“Please don’t leave us again, he’s just stupid but you know he’s not mean, I’m sure he didn’t realise… It’s my fault, not his…”

Jaskier interrupts her by catching her wrist and pulling her into a hug so tight his own ribs scream in pain but he doesn't care.

“Cirilla listen to me. I love you with all my heart, and none of what happened the other day was your fault. None.”

“But you told me…”

“I told you my story because I trust you. You are an incredibly smart and kind girl and I know you would never use my past or my body to hurt me. But please, please listen : it is not your job to fix other people's mistakes or to protect them from themselves, and I should never have put you in such a situation where you could even begin to think that. That’s on me, not you.”

“But Geralt…”

Jaskier carefully breaks the hug and lays a hand on Cirilla’s face, his thumb rubbing at her cheek.

“We both love him, in our own ways, but when Geralt fucks up like the big oaf he can be it is never your responsibility to plead for him. He did what he thought was right, just like you said, and I may be hurting, yes, it’s true but this is for me to deal with Geralt, not for you to bear in my place.”

Jaskier lays a kiss on the top of her head.

“If you’re scared I would leave _you_ because of his shittyness I can try and comfort _you_ , but you don’t have to find excuses for him or talk in his name. That’s our job as grownups to talk it out, even if we are very bad at it.”

He disentangles himself from her space, and gives her a wink.

“You don't need to burden that smart and beautiful head of yours with our nonsense, that will give you wrinkles before your age.”

She giggles, he voice still trembling from the almost tears.

“You know I hate it when you talk about “grownups” like I’m still a kid…”

“I know cub, I know. But unluckily for you, that is our prerogative as guardians to embarass you as much as we like.”

The groan and eyeroll she lets out makes the bard laugh out loud, relieved that the tensions in her shoulders finally seem to loosen.

“But seriously though. There is not much assholery Geralt could do that would ever convince me to leave you. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, princess.”

Her eyes close and he’s pretty sure she’s trying to ground herself into her breathing the way she learnt from Vesemir. Which, if he’s being honest, is kind of a relief because he is still exhausted as fuck.

After a while, Cirilla opens her eyes again and her voice and demeanor are less shaky, less scared, as she sits back more comfortably on the chair.

“Okay.”

Honestly, even if it’s still a bit fragile, it’s enough for Jaskier to stop insisting on the matter. He knows there's nothing he can say at the moment that would ease her mind instantly, and that the only way to prove to the girl he is serious is by keeping both his word and his place by her side, as long as she needs him. There are things only time (and really, really uncomfortable discussions he really doesn't want to have) can heal.

While keeping his hand upon the kid’s wrist, Jaskier lets his head fall back on the pillow

“So, how are you and the grumpy wolves doing out there ?”

“You could have asked Yenn.”

He shruggs.

“Could have, should have, did not.”

Cirilla looks puzzled for a second, but eventually answers.

“I’ve been training with Eskel and Vesemir, so I can finally use actual blades sometimes, but not always. I’m still not convinced Vesemir isn’t trying to bore me to death with all his books, but Yenn says he’s just worried and wants me to always be ready. He promised he would show me how to make small explosives if I do well !”

“I thought that was Lambert’s favourite part ?”

She frowns, visibly unsure of what to say and choosing her words carefully.

“Lambert is not doing so well. Everyone knows you were talking before… Before, but he doesn't want to say about what. Geralt almost fought him, Eskel had to separate them, it wasn't pretty. I think I heard Yenn talk to him when he brought bathwater to her room but that's it, he’s avoiding everyone else the rest of time.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to put the gears in his head to use after the bloody fucking stupid thought “but there's only one tub in Yennefer's room” was uttered by his brain. So, he owes the daily baths to Lambert’s big muscles, no doubt with a little bit of convincing from Yennefer. That’s unexpected. If one didn't know the bastard, one could think this is some kind of penance or remorse, but Jaskier knows better. Doesn't he ?

Back to earth, it’s not hard to see the inquisitive look on Cirilla’s face is hoping he’ll tell her what his discussion with Lambert was all about, and he doesn't intend on doing so just yet.

“And Geralt ?”

She frowns, almost a grimace.

“Again, why are you asking me this and not Yenn ?!”

“Because I know you are a sneaky little weasel who sees and hears all.”

Cirilla feigns outrage with a loud gasp, but can’t quite hide her proud smirk.

“And because she told me you banished him from my room, so I thought maybe we should talk about it.”

She suddenly tenses and straightens her back defensively, her proud smirk turning sour. Shit, maybe it's too early. Maybe he should have waited more. But now that he’s started, wouldn't it be even harder to stop and come back to it later ?

“I can't imagine how hard that must have been, to stand against him like that. I know how much you mean to each other.”

“It wasn't too difficult. I didn't want you to see him first thing when you woke up. He tried to convince me he should stay but I think I was too sleep deprived to even hear what he said the second time. And then he tried to send Eskel to talk to me instead and I’m not sure but I think I threatened them to scream until the whole keep fell on them if they tried again.”

“You what ?!”

“But I didn't do it okay ! I was exhausted and they wouldn't leave me alone !”

Jaskier can feel the air of shock on his face slowly turn into a grin and his chest tremble until he is wheezing and cackling with a laughter that brings pain to his ribs but that he couldn't control even if he wanted to. In her seat, Cirilla seems relieved at his reaction and allows herself to laugh with him at the absurdity of it all.

After a while, the bard manages to wipe away the tears of laughter from his eyes and beams at the princess.

“You are my hero Cirilla. I really couldn't dream of a better watch lion, even if I must insist that it's not your responsibility to do it on your own and I’m glad Yenn relieved you of that.”

She offers him a sheepish smile.

“But come to think of it, I don't think I’ve ever seen Geralt send someone do something in his place… It’s quite possible you blew up at Eskel when he was just trying to help…”

A look of comical horror passes on Cirilla’s face before she slaps both her hands above her eyes.

“I knoooooow… I thought so too and Yenn said the same and I’m so sorry for him !”

Jaskier pats her lap gently, his smile still in place.

“Don’t worry too much my love, the man grew up with Lambert, I’m sure that's not the first time he’s been threatened for no good reason. There's a big chance he likes you even better for it.”

She looks at him through her fingers.

“But I don’t want to be like Lambert !”

“Oh believe me, you are still far from his level. And as long as you ended up apologising, there's a good chance you won’t ever get there.”

Her hands fall back to her knees, as she grumbles something unintelligible, more so for herself than him.

“Did you get the chance to apologise and talk about it ?”

“Yeah, before training, he said that’s okay and I was a good kid, and I couldn't tell him to stop calling me a kid because I was still embarrassed, and I’m _still_ _embarrassed_ even now !”

_Teenagers. You’ve got to love them._

“And Geralt ? Did you find a moment to talk ?”

She grumbles again, this time with a frown of her nose.

“Not really… He’s been avoiding the subject ever since I said I didn't want him to come in. I think he thinks I’m angry at him but he won’t even let me talk to him about it ! He spends a lot of time with Yenn, and I know they're talking a lot but they don't want me to listen. I’m pretty sure she used a silencing spell on her door.”

_And I’m pretty sure that's because they started fucking again my dear._

“My best shot at listening to him is when he talks to Roach, and then it’s all variations on how much of an idiot he is. Can’t blame him though, I’m pretty sure I heard Yenn call him ‘blind as a cavefish’”.

His free hand comes down on his forehead with a very pathetic splotch sound.

“Do you feel stupid for not telling her sooner ?”

Hand still sprawled upon his face, the bard stares at the ceiling between his fingers for a while before answering.

“Yeah… Well, I guess there was always a part that suspected she had to know something, with her being a powerful mage and all, but I didn’t want to bring it up ? I think it was easier for me to foolishly hope she had no idea than to deal with the other option. So we didn’t talk and I was stuck, like any idiot in a ´don’t ask don’t tell’ situation.”

“But what about now ? She's helping you right ? Did she say or do anything at all ?”

“No, she… She's been lovely.”

 _And I’ve been a coward_.

“I think she's waiting for me to talk when I’m ready, and I don’t think I’ll be as long as she's acting like my garde-malade.”

He blinks, slowly, trying his best not to get overwhelmed and to push the self doubt and hatred back down.

“What about you ? I know you spoke with her, do you want to talk about it ?”

As he lowers the hand on his face and turns his gaze back to Cirilla, he catches a soft glint of pink on her cheeks.

“I don't know if there's much to say… I… I almost snapped at her too when she told me I needed to rest. I wanted to say such horrible things but she asked me if I knew about you the whole time, and…”

The soft pink is turning into a deeper red, and Jaskier feels his chest burning with love.

“She said I was brave and you would be proud of me. That I have taken care of you for way longer than she thought and I had earned some rest. I didn't want to but she said you took care of her too, and she promised she would not let anything happen to you.”

_Do not cry, do not cry, I swear on Melitele’s ample bosom if you cry I will not be held responsible for my actions._

And it’s hard. Gods it's hard not to cry, to give her the biggest smile he can do without a wobbly lip, to put a hand on hers without lunging into another hug and to speak with a clear voice.

“She's right, you know. You are so brave, I am so proud of you, and there is not a shred of doubt in my mind that Geralt and her are just as proud as I am, if not even more.”

He can see Cirilla getting even redder and struggle to breathe under the emotion.

“Stop it Jask ! You're going to make me cry !”

“Oh no ! No no no we can't have that can we ? Yennefer would skin me alive if she thought I’d made her precious Cirilla cry ! And I happen to quite like my skin very much as it is !”

The laugh that bursts out of the girl’s mouth gets so caught in her throat by the surprise it's almost a yelp.

“You laugh ! O you cruel, you ungrateful child, I would die at the hands of the most terrifying woman this continent has ever known, and yet you laugh !”

“I thought Grandma was the most terrifying woman on the continent ?”

“Excuse me princess, I would die at the hands of the most terrifying mage this continent has ever known !”

Mischief and glee sparkle in her eyes.

“Actually, according to these books I’ve been told to read…”

The bard lets out a very dramatic gasp and pretends to clasp a hand on Cirilla’s mouth, playfully watching around as if Yennefer could be hiding in any tiny creak and nook in the room.

“Shhhhh, don’t let her hear you or she will skin us both !”

The girl giggles for a second, but silences herself quickly. Thank the gods his head is not facing hers at the moment, because even then he can _feel_ her squinting and shooting him a suspicious look. Nonetheless, he finds himself jumping in place, startled by her sudden gasp.

“You like her !”

“What are you talking about, cub ?”

“You like _like_ her !”

“What happened to “I don’t like it when you speak like I’m still a kid” exactly ?”

She looks at him straight in the eye and recites.

“Unfortunately for you it is my prerogative as your pupil to use my age against you whenever I like.”

“Hmmm…”

 _I’ve never been prouder of you, you short legged menace_.

“Soooo ?”

“So what my dear ?”

“So what are you going to do about it ?”

“Well even if there was something there, I fail to see how that would be any of your business.”

“I think _you_ are going to make it the business of anyone who hears the song you are doubtlessly going to write about it.”

The outraged sounds coming from his mouth are completely undignified, and he can’t even bring himself to care seeing how the exchange is making the girl’s eyes shine with joy.

“You…! How… Presumptuous, outrageous ! How dare you, young lady ?!”

“So if I go to your notebooks right now I won’t find a draft for a new song about longing for a beautiful and terrifying lady ?”

She points at his work table with the most devilish smile known to man.

“... you wouldn’t dare…”

“I don’t know, would I ?”

She stands very slowly, her grin getting bigger by the second...

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon !”

…and she’s gone, dashing toward his precious notes, and before he knows it he is on his feet trying to beat her to them, grappling at her wrist carefully not to hurt her. They fall to the ground on the fur carpets in front of the fireplace with squeals of outrage and laugh, limbs wrangled in playful wrestle for a short while. Jaskier may well be the adult ( _allegedly_ , some would say), but bedridden days, his healing ribs and more importantly Cirilla’s training with the wolves certainly make him struggle way more than what would be acceptable against a twelve years old. They split, eventually, red in the face and disheveled, panting from the play fight and the laughs, the precious notebook safely tucked into Jaskier's hands. They rest against one another for a moment, catching their breaths and looking into the fire together, his very unfortunate infatuation almost ( _almost_ ) forgotten.

“Would you sing for me ?”

Cirilla is the first to break the silence, snuggling against his side in a way that reminds him of their very first years together in Cintra. The bard struggles to grab his lute without dislodging her, and hands it to her.

“Only if you’re the one playing, princess. What do you want me to sing ?”

“What about that song from Toussaint about the girl and the white doe ?”

Jaskier frowns his nose, memories from his recent nightmares flashing back before his eyes.

“You do remember the lyrics are frankly disgusting right ?”

“I know, but it’s so pretty…”

He sighs and shakes his head before checking the tuning of his instrument.

“Alright, anything for you princess.”

They sing and play until the light outside is well gone and Cirilla’s stomach begins to rumble, but only Yennefer's reappearance manages to convince the girl to get back up and leave. The bard lets her out with a kiss on the hand and the promise that she be patient with Geralt. As she passes through the door saying something to Yenn he can’t bring himself to care about, Jaskier smiles with all his heart at the sight of the two women together and realises he has not a bit of fear left about his place along them left.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jaskier knows his days hidden away in his room are coming to an end.

Actually, it’s even more likely that they should have ended a while ago. His fever is gone, his wrist and arm finally allow him to take care of his own clothes and hair, and even his back has started feeling better than it had in years. There's not been a good reason for him to stay in bed for a few days now, and yet Yennefer still comes by with plates of food and bottles of soothing salves.

“Why are you doing this ?”

The question slips past his lips without him meaning to one afternoon right after she's done with his back and he's done putting his clothes back on.

“Why do you think ?”

Will they, one day, one single day, manage to answer each other's questions without that kind of evading crap ?

“I don’t know anymore. I thought you were simply stepping in so that Cirilla wouldn't take on too much. But now that it's clear I’m recovered and you still come by I’m not so sure anymore.”

Behind him, Yennefer stays silent for a while, and he doesn't want to turn around and face her yet but the lack of answer stresses him out. He’s ready to start rambling to change the subject when the sorceress finally speaks.

“You’re scared of getting out there.”

Wow, true, but completely uncalled for. Jaskier turns around, aware that offence is clearly visible on his face while Yennefer cocks an eyebrow.

“Rude.”

“Do you want to hear my answer or to interrupt me ?”

A grumble, and a small curtsy as both an apology and an invitation to go on.

“You’re the kind of man who thrives on the attention he gets from others, positive or negative alike. You put on a scene any time you enter a room and you speak like you’re delivering lines on the greatest Novigrad stage with little regard for if others see you as the hero, the villain, or a mere buffoon.”

The words punch the air out of his gut, caught completely unguarded.

“And yet. You didn't run to the main stage as soon as you were able to. You stayed here, shielded from everyone's eyes, and you didn’t even burn our ears with spiteful songs.”

“Is there a point you're trying to make or do you enjoy rubbing salts on my wounds after you've cared so well for them ?”

“My point _is_ that you were wounded. Not just physically. I promised I would help you get back on your feet, and until now I didn't think that was truly the case.”

The pair of amethysts are staring at him with an intensity he is not used to receiving, and it takes him a second to realise why. Protective. She looks the way she did while standing up to the wolves for Cirilla.

“And now...?”

His voice trembles way more than he would like it too, and he struggles to hold her gaze. Yennefer looks him up and down before she answers.

“I’ve got one last thing to take care of. Wait for me in your room, I shouldn't be gone long.”

She’s out the door before Jaskier can formulate a coherent sentence, words buzzing and rattling inside his head like so many pests.

The few steps across the corridor never felt that much of an ordeal before, and once in his room the bard almost flings himself on the freshly made bed, his heart racing like a hare once again. He resists the temptation to curl himself into a ball and scream into the pillow, not even sure why the short exchange made him feel so raw, and tries to keep his breathing in check the way Cirilla showed him.

He’s almost fallen asleep when Yennefer comes back holding a burlap sack in her hands.

“Before we get to that, I think you wanted a story.”

Jaskier's eyes open wide instantly, any interest he’d started having in the bag gone out the window in a blink. He can feel an excited grin growing on his lips as he sits up.

“Fucking finally !”

She shoots him an exasperated yet fond look, and he very actively pushes away her mention of him needing to be a _good boy_ from his memory. Another time maybe.

“So tell me tell me tell me, what is Vesemir's dirty little secret ? It can’t be his stash of booze, everyone knows about it. Did you find where he hides the raunchy novels in the library ? I know they must be there somewhere, there's always raunchy novels. Or are those sappy romance ones ?? Oh oh, did you find personal letters from a dear lady friend of his ? I know, I know he’s old but you can’t convince me he doesn't have some kind of charm…”

“He’s retired.”

“...or is it some dark terrible secret, a horrible mistake on the path, a shadow upon his proud wolvish heart, _what did you just say_ ?”

Jaskier can’t close his mouth once Yennefer's words finally reach his brain, while she's smiling at him with a certain smugness.

“I said he's retired. Done with the path, gone sedentary, and too proud to know how to tell his pups.”

The bard wants to squeal with excitement, only lets out small hiccups of laughs, trying (and failing) to catch his breath.

“But how ? How does it work ? How did you find out ?”

“The kitchen.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

She raises her eyebrow at him, visibly amused by his shock.

“You have seen the kitchen, the amount of food in the cellar. Do you really think one single man could possibly stock it the way it is, on his own ?”

“Geralt says he comes back a week or two before the others so he can set up the keep for his boys.”

“There's half a beef in the salting tub.”

“He has his donkey to help !”

“And who do you think takes care of stubborn old donkey Cilantro when Vesemir allegedly goes on the path ? Or the chicken coop ? Or the goats ? Do you think a witcher can afford to slaughter his whole herd every spring and buy a new one come winter ?”

Jaskier blinks once, twice, and then another five times for good measure. It’s so obvious, and so stupid.

“So you’re telling me grandpa wolf stays here all year round playing house ?”

The smile on Yennefer's face twists into something even more devilish.

“Oh, it gets even better than that. You see, I was curious about the magic.”

“The magic ?!”

“The cellar reeks of portal residues. It’s so pungent I’m surprised even you can’t smell it.”

“I thought it was the salting tub…”

“And finally, I was very, very intrigued by that locked door no one ever mentions at the back of the cellar.”

“Vesemir's secret wine stash ? That's not a mystery, I told you, everyone knows about it.”

“No, his secret wine stash is behind a fake set of books on his alchemy shelves.”

“Yennefer you are an evil genius and you are killing me, what the bloody hell is behind the cellar door ?”

“A mill.”

“Beg your pardon ?”

“You heard me bard, there's a water mill hidden in Kaer Morhen, right beside residues from multiple repetitive portals in a kitchen that is way more furnished than anything any witcher has ever been able to afford. Can you do the math on your own or should I get you a quill and parchment ?”

There's a short silence, during which Jaskier tries his best to put the pieces together under Yennefer's teasing eyes.

“Let me get this right. Vesemir, the old grumpy grandpa witcher and father figure to the three seasonal kaer morons, who tried to convince us Cirilla should be trained according to witcher tradition, has actually put his monster slaying days behind him unbeknownst to his pups to become a stay-at-home farmer and _miller_ ?”

The sorceress is grinning, an unusual look on her, but an inebriating one.

“Why ? How ?”

“I’m certain you can imagine he wasn't too keen on giving me more details when I confronted him. All I know is that he must have a mage friend to help with his little side business, and I doubt we’ll get more out of him anytime soon.”

Jaskier cannot hold it anymore, and flops onto the bed with his arms spread wide, laughing his heart out until tears almost come out. His mind wanders to his question to Geralt so many years ago about witcher’s retirement.

_When then slow and get killed._

There's a story in this somewhere, of men who were ripped apart without a choice and think so lowly of themselves they refuse the very idea of a choice they could make now. Of believing their own happiness and freedom to be such a transgression from what was burnt into their minds they can’t fathom to speak of it. It’s not a happy story.

 _But it could be_.

“Are you still there songbird ?”

The sound of Yennefer's voices brings him back to earth, and he sits up carefully. The sorceress is looking at him, the strange and intense stare back on her face, her hands grasping at the sack just a tad too strong, and he’s suddenly reminded he has no idea what’s in it.

“Yeah, just… Thinking. I see why Vesemir would not want to mess with you if you hold that kind of bomb above his head. Thank you for telling me.”

“Don’t thank me yet. That’s what we’d agreed on.”

She tosses the sack on his lap, and he’s so surprised he almost doesn't catch it, too busy blinking and staring at her.

“Open it.”

It’s not an order. Or if it is, it’s well hidden behind the softness of her voice. And so he obeys, carefully undoing the thread that closes the bag and pulling its content out.

Cloth. Off-white cotton. Soft and yet sturdy.

“What…?”

Jaskier's hands begin to shake as he unfolds the fabric, revealing two lines of eyelets tied with a solid lacing over another panel of cloth.

A bodice.

His eyes falter from Yenn’s face to the cloth, unsure of whom or what to focus on, unsure of what to say.

“It’s, it’s…”

 _Impossible. Incredible_.

Mindlessly, his thumb rubs at the fabric, finding an embroidered shape that forces his eyes down. The cut is the same as his old one, save from extra eyelets and the absence of whalebones, and the hems are a bit rough and not perfectly even but the backstitches look amazing. A soft pattern of embroidered buttercups and dandelions dances around the bodice in Cintran tradition, simple but elegant, giving the piece of clothing the look of an actual chemise and not just some undergarment.

“Try it on if you’d like.”

The bard blinks like a fool, unable to form a coherent thought or to keep his mouth from blabbering.

“But, it won’t…”

“Try it on before you start whining.”

He shuts his mouth at once with a click of his teeth, and doesn't think twice about being tits out before yanking his shirt above his head and putting the bodice on. As he expected from the lack of whalebone, he can’t pull on the lacing as tight as he used to to flatten his chest, but a tingling sensation makes the hair on his arms rise. Looking down, it appears no tightening is actually needed.

“How did… Did you…?”

He clears his throat, a desperate attempt not to look like a fumbling idiot.

“Is that a glamour ?”

From the eyeroll and sigh Yennefer gives him in return, he guesses he failed at his attempt miserably.

“Do I look like a fairy to you ?”

Jaskier can feel his cheeks get red and puts his shirt back on atop the bodice to hide his embarrassment. The illusion is perfect, and he can even rub a hand down his torso without feeling a single bump.

“Cirilla did the embroidery, I did the enchantment. It will look the same no matter how tight you lace it, so don’t go breaking your own back too soon or I might make you pay for the next one.”

Hollow threats, he knows it.

“You’ve got your armour back. You have the most dangerous intel this castle has seen for the past century. You're ready.”

Thoughts collide in his head like a hailstorm without forming a single clear sentence. It feels like an eternity before he can finally utter words once again.

“Yennefer, I am going to hug you now.”

He doesn't even wait for her answer, even though he still moves fairly slowly to give her the time to protest or pull a knife on him. But she doesn't try to, and to his greatest surprise she even puts her hands on his shoulder blades and squeezes them lightly. A long, long silence settles between them, but it’s not an uncomfortable one and Jaskier almost whines when the time comes to break their embrace. Thankfully instead, he manages to speak, his hands still resting on her shoulders.

“Thank you Yenn. For everything.”

The sorceress catches his right hand in hers and intertwines their fingers briefly before taking it off of her.

“Don’t mention it.”

Her smile is so tender it lights a fire inside his chest, a good one for the first time in a long while. Once again, the fleeting temptation to press his lips against hers, swatted away by a pinch of shame. Now is not the time to ruin the moment.

His efforts to keep himself from staring at her mouth appear vain when Yenn’s smile slightly turns from tender to something more teasing. He can feel his life unroll before his eyes as he desperately tries to find something to say, anything to get off that slippery slope.

“You’re amazing with Cirilla, do you know that ?”

“Oh, am I now ?”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, but he could swear there's the slightest hint of pink tainting her ears and suddenly the memory of Cirilla’s teasing voice rings in his.

“You really are. She cares for your opinion and she trusts you, that's more than most people who were tasked to raise her could have said.”

“She loves you more.”

“She _knows_ me more. There's no doubt in my mind she loves you, very differently but still very much.”

He dares not say the M word, unsure of her reaction, but something shifts in her eyes that makes him think she may as well have heard it.

“I doubt her grandmother would have been very pleased to hear that.”

“You’re right, but then Calanthe always was quite the character. Oh, since we're on the subject, I’ve always wanted to ask you if you'd met her ?”

Her teasing and predatory smile is back on, and he knows the second he finishes his sentence he just walked right into it.

“Maybe. But if I did, that's a story for another time. See you later on the other side.”

“Yennefer !!”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The next morning is far from the nightmare he’d come to fear. Geralt and Lambert are nowhere to be seen at the morning table where he is warmly welcomed by Cirilla, who takes it upon herself to catch him up on all the new sword techniques she's been learning by using the cutlery, with the help of Eskel’s enthusiastic commentaries. The downsized reenactments quickly turn into a mess of breakfast food and dirty plates, which is almost spoiled by Vesemir starting to reprimand them, who is in turn interrupted by Jaskier suddenly bursting into very loud singed praises of fresh bread made with the most freshly grinded of flours. The bard knows he will forever cherish the sight of the old witcher’s eyes widening with horror and leaving the room without further reprimands. The made-up song then goes on to narrate the adventures of a gingerbread knight slaying monsters made of cheese, and by the third verse he can even see Yennefer strumming her finger in rhythm from her chair by the fire where she’s settled, while Eskel gives him a discreet thumb up in Cirilla’s back.

Off to a great start then !

As Cirilla and the scarred witcher get to their feet to start the day’s training with Lil’ Bleater on their heels, Jaskier sets off on his own personal mission. He might not be as good at tracking as the wolves are, but he’ll be damned if he's not twice as persistent, and so he makes a quick detour by the kitchen to fill his pockets with apples before going straight for the stables. Once there, he gives half an apple to each of the horses and donkey, keeping the biggest and juiciest for a young chestnut mare.

“Hello there, New Roach.”

The horse is already at the door of her stall when he reaches her, most probably called by the crunching noises coming from her neighbours, and snorts at him.

“I know, that was a bit rude, sorry. But you’ve got to admit it’s ruder to call each and every one of you by the same name.”

Jaskier takes the last apple from his bag, cuts it in half, and suddenly the snorts turn into a soft pleading nicker that puts a smile on his face.

“Yes, that's for you. Glad to see bribery always works.”

He offers her a half on his flattened hand, patting and caressing her neck with the other. Just like the others before her, this Roach isn’t a trustful horse but will still accept more from someone who comes bearing gifts.

“So, I know this is awkward and we don’t know each other very well, but would you be kind enough to let me into your stall ?”

Tentatively, the hand that petted her neck slides down to the lock of the door, and Roach’s ears flick at the noise before she shakes her head with another snort.

“Yes, it’s all very sudden but I promise it’s for a good reason so could you trust me a little quicker ? Pretty please ? For this other half maybe ?”

He tries to hold the apple out of her reach like a bargaining chip, but doesn't move quick enough before she nicks it out of his hand.

“Oh bollocks…”

If a horse could look smug, Roach would doubtlessly look so, and still very much determined not to let him in. Jaskier scoffs in defeated amusement and goes back to rubbing her neck and mane.

“Alright you stu… You smart and beautiful horse, you win this round. Guess I’ll have to wait outside like an _animal_ since you leave me no choice, but I hope you don’t…”

“Jaskier ?”

The bard freezes, reciting every step of his carefully crafted plan in his head to try and give himself some courage.

_Step 1 : go to the stables._

_Step 2 : bribe Roach with an offering._

_Step 3 : get inside her stall and wait._

_Step 4 : ambush Geralt when he inevitably comes to see his mare._

_Step 5 : ??? Talk ???_

Fuck.

Jaskier takes a deep breath as he turns around and faces the witcher.

“Geralt. I believe we need to talk.”

The wolf blinks, and begins to open his mouth, but the bard cuts him off.

“‘Not here. The walls have many ears and they’re all called Cirilla.”

The silence as they walk side by side to get to the eastern watchtower is the most deafening it’s been since the very first day of their strange partnership. Jaskier finds himself wanting to talk, sing, scream even if it could stop being so painful, but cannot bring himself to, just like he cannot bring himself to look upon Geralt's face before they’ve arrived at the top and they're sitting on old barrels and crates of gods-know-what.

Maybe that’s for the best, because when he does so, he finds the same scared and pained look that made him lose his mind a few weeks back, and it is the most arduous task to keep his mind from dashing back to this moment on a loop. Jaskier blinks, and turns his eyes towards the inner courtyard underneath, where Vesemir finally joined Eskel and Ciri for her morning training after his retreat from the breakfast battle.

“I am sorry.”

Geralt's voice behind him is barely louder than a whisper.

“What are you sorry for Geralt ?”

There is no need for Jaskier to turn around to know the witcher is puzzled, maybe even tilting his head like a lost puppy.

“I thought you wanted to talk ?”

“I did. And I do.”

He can feel his heart start to beat faster. Harder. Residual anger. Discomfort. Fear. A deep breath and he turns around.

“So let’s talk. What are you sorry for Geralt ? Tell me.”

“I shouldn’t have. I should have listened to Ciri and let you be. Not force you… I shouldn’t have taken your clothes off. Let alone tear them apart. I know you’re angry and I shouldn't have seen you like that.”

“Is that why you think I’m so angry at you ?”

_The puppy look, the stupid puppy look._

“Isn’t that so ?”

Inhale. Exhale. Try and talk like civilised beings, not scream and shout like an angered shrew.

“Geralt I am not angry because you saw my tits. Terrified, devastated ? Yes, at first, because, well, there go two decades of doing a very good job at concealing them, and quite literally the worst way I’d imagined you to finally get acquainted with them, but that’s only my concern, not yours.”

 _Stop rambling, out with it_.

“I’m angry at you because I saw the way you were looking at me as soon as you’d seen them.”

If the lack of white mist coming from the witcher’s mouth is any tell, he’s holding his breath. To be fair, the bard might be doing just the same.

“You wanted to kiss me. Didn't you ?”

“Yes.”

Oh it hurts. So much. Jaskier closes his eyes, throws his head back onto a wooden beam.

“Fucking... I’ve wanted to hear you say this for _so long_ . But I wanted _you_ to want _me_ for who I am, not because of what I happen to have ! I can’t blame you for loving only women Geralt, but I thought… Fuck, I hoped that after so many years you would know me to be a man, no matter what.”

There's a silence, during which Jaskier tries his best not to claw the inside of his own hands.

“I never doubted you were a man. Not when we met, not when I saw you lay with other men, not when I heard the rumors, not when I saw your chest.”

The bard’s eyes open wide, too quickly for his own taste. So he _had_ heard the rumours, in the end. Geralt is breathing again, but though he still seems puzzled and raw, the lost puppy look has been replaced by genuine concern.

“If not, then why would you do it ?”

“Is that why you think I wanted you ?”

“I think I made myself clear. Answer the question Geralt, why would you suddenly want that, after so many years of rejection, when the only thing that has changed is that you saw my tits ?”

“Jaskier, please…”

Only when he hears the low pitched plea in Geralt's voice does the bard realise how bitter, how harsh himself sounds, and tries to keep himself from spiralling even deeper to let his friend talk.

“There are things in life that a witcher is not supposed to want, let alone have. I always thought I was meant to be on my own. But then you showed up. Always so bright, so kind, so full of life and so full of _love_. It was intoxicating. I could see that you wanted me, but I didn’t understand why, I didn't know what to do and I didn't know what I’d do when you would leave for good for someone else, so I tried to keep you away.”

“But I always came back.”

“But you always came back. I still didn't know what to do, how to tell you how much you meant, and I kept hurting you because I didn't want you to waste your life with someone like me.”

A shiver runs down Jaskier's spine, and suddenly his stomach is thumping with muffled nervous laughs.

“Hurt me ? _Hurt_ me ? Geralt, you gutted me and threw me to the wolves. That’s not a way to treat anyone, let alone your friend, let alone someone you claim to care about.”

“I know. And I am sorry.”

There is so much pain in his words Jaskier can’t help but bite down on another jab. It’s not the first time they get to talk that much, but it is the first he’s ever seen the witcher so open, vulnerable.

“When I saw you here, with Ciri, with Yenn, that’s when I realised I didn't want to push any of you away anymore, that maybe I am not meant to be alone.”

A vision of the cellar door flashes before Jaskier's eyes, and he bites at his lips to keep them shut.

“Then I saw you struggling to breathe the other day, and I was back in Rinde with this fucking djinn, I was so scared I would lose you before I could finally tell you how important you are, to me.”

Jaskier would like to cry. So many years he’d passed dreaming of hearing those words in Geralt's mouth. But it feels like something keeps breaking inside his guts, and instead of soothing his pain the confession is blowing on its embers.

“I thought you didn't care for men.”

“Not when you are near.”

The witcher’s eyes seem brighter somewhat, and Jaskier can’t help but blush at the implication.

“You’re the best man I’ve ever known Jaskier, nothing I saw could ever change that. You're my best friend and I…”

“Don’t. Please. If you care for me as much as you say, please don’t say that now or Melitele help me I will push you right off this tower.”

He tries to offer a smile. To express how hard it is not to grab the words of affection he’s longed to hear and run with them.

“I told you, I’ve waited a long time to hear those words, but there are still things I find hard to believe, or to let go of.”

"You’re still scared I'd see you as a woman.”

"I am scared you'd see me as a freak."

Jaskier takes a deep breath in the silence that follows, and goes on with an even tone, trying his best not to crumble at the sight of Geralt's horrified face.

"There are many good people on this earth who do not bother people like me and let us live our lives as we wish. But that's hardly all of them, too many still see us as freaks and monsters.”

He meets Geralt’s eyes.

“What is it again that witchers are supposed to hunt and kill ?"

The words never came so clearly, so organically to Jaskier, and he has to take a break and stomach them almost as hard as Geralt, who looks like he got kicked in the face by a horse. The memory of being slain by Cirilla in his nightmare comes back to haunt him, and silence falls on them once again. Is it over ? Did he just blow it ? He did, didn’t he, him and his big bloody mouth…

"I'm sorry… That I didn’t make you feel safe enough to trust me."

Jaskier blinks once. And then twice. He definitely didn't expect to hear so many apologies today, and wonders if maybe Yennefer's influence is to be thanked for it. A sad smile hoovers above his lips as he answers with a sigh.

"I do feel safe around you. I know you'd ever harm me like that. Hells I know you wouldn't even hurt some monsters like that. But this is complicated. It doesn't always make sense."

“Do you want to talk about it ?”

He feels on the verge of crying again, but this time, less from anger and sadness than from a maelstrom of void pooling in his stomach.

"No, not right now. I am so tired of being afraid all the time. It's so exhausting to live as if everyone is out there to get you, and to act like it’s nothing at all.”

"I think I can relate."

Geralt's voice is low, almost a whisper. It’s so clearly visible that he’s trying to do his best but unsure how to. Gods, all Jaskier ever wanted was to keep him talking, to make him feel heard, and maybe, just maybe, this time it will work.

"I think so too. But you don't really make it easy to share that with you.”

Fuck it's hard to stay mad when he does know how lonely the witcher's life can be.

 _But it doesn't have to be_.

The witcher raises his head tentatively.

“Did the others know ? Before ?”

“Apparently Yennefer did, but we never really spoke of it. Cirilla has known for a few years now, leave it to a princess to clock another princess. We’ve talked about it, she's amazing, as always.”

The sudden change in Geralt's face at the mention of the word “princess” suddenly reminds Jaskier that there is another whole part of his personal story that he failed to mention. Oops. A tale for another time perhaps.

“You took a big risk being exposed in Calanthe’s court. That must have been hard.”

“It wasn’t really too bad. I was untouchable as long as I taught Cirilla, Calanthe and Eist made sure of that even though they knew.”

Geralt cocks an eyebrow, suddenly almost amused.

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Calanthe ?”

“Don’t judge her too badly. She did unspeakable things I will never find excuses for. But she loved her family, maybe even too much. Pavetta’s wedding and death truly did a number on her, and she tried her best to uproot the traditions she had to endure growing up herself because she didn't want Cirilla to suffer.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Count me in, add Yenn and make it four.”

 _They’re doing it again,_ Jaskier thinks to himself, tiptoeing around the subject, grabbing onto the smallest piece of conversation so they can avoid talking open heartedly. A sigh that sounds a lot like a groan escapes his mouth as he rubs at his face with an exhausted weariness.

“Listen. What you said earlier, it means a lot to me… Don’t get me wrong I am glad I could _finally_ hear those words from you… But that can’t be all. I know… I know why you’d do that kind of self sacrificing crap, I’ve always known it's your thing. But I can’t… Gods know how much I want to but I can’t just lock it up or sweep it under a rug and fall into your bed like nothing ever happened.”

He raises his head, looking at the witcher almost between his fingers. It’s only now that he realised how close to each other they have shifted during the conversation.

“I have cared for you so much, wanted you so much, and for so long... And I still do. But you hurt me. You hurt me and you rejected me, repeatedly. I had to try and make my peace with that, even when my heart couldn’t let go of you. One confession can’t make up for that in the blink of an eye.”

His hands slip down, and he pats the wood right beside him, the witcher almost trips on his own foot trying to move from his spot to sit next to the bard.

“I need time Geralt. After everything you put me through I think it’s only fair. Plus I think you and Yenn need some time too. But that doesn't mean we can't be friends.”

Geralt nods. There is still pain in his eyes, but also a spark of relief, of understanding. He raises a hand, tentatively, and Jaskier decides to let himself go and put the wolf out of his misery as he closes the space between them and rests his head on the witcher’s shoulder. Geralt’s arm shifts, draping the bard with his woollen winter cape.

“Is this okay ?”

Jaskier nods against him, rubbing his face against the rough fabric.

_So much for not falling into his arms._

_I said I wouldn't fall into his_ bed, _that's different._

“I missed you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know. I missed you too.”

They smile, and watch in peaceful silence as Yennefer enters the courtyard and exchanges words they cannot hear with Vesemir. Cirilla finishes a pirouette and barely takes time to sheathe her sword before she’s running at the sorceress and giving her a hug. In a matter of minutes, the dummies and blades are cleaned and back on their racks, and the small pack is getting back inside the keep.

“Can we stay here for a while ?”

“As long as you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The french/toussaintois song referenced in this chapter is "La Complainte de la blanche biche", a traditional french/breton song that has lived rent free in my head for the past three months or so, so if you're interested in pretty songs with horrible lyrics, please check Tri Yann's version here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mnyzJhG-1fU

**Author's Note:**

> I have a side-blog dedicated to witcher content, for now it's only reblogs but once I'm far enough with this work I have a fluffy little AU I'm planning on developping there, so if you want you can follow me at https://jaskierslastbraincell.tumblr.com/  
> Hope to see you there !


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